SPARROW ON THE PROPHET'S TOMB
1
O sparrow perched on a corner of the
Prophet's tomb
cheeping above thousands of bowed heads murmuring,
whose glassy chirps hit high notes of
purity under the eaves in this
Mosque of God's
Messenger
that resides in two territories of space--
this world seen, the next world
unseen
–
in this shadow existence of his signal presence among us
visitors from even farther away than
China pass by to
greet him,
and in your little feathered body is the swooping freedom to
come and go all day to visit him
speeding from a tall beam
across choruses of hearts
gratefully weeping or tranquil with an ecstatic
inner moon rise
just to be here.
2
Sparrow, what is your name? Is it "Constant Devotion?"
Is it "I Want To Be Near?" "Praiseworthy Friend?"
Is your name "Generations To Come?"
You fluff your breast and preen your wing
where men cannot go, you dart into the
dark of the tomb for deeper conversation.
We would all go with you if we could,
squeeze our tiny feathery bodies through the
gold grille work, past the
guards in
their pea green uniforms,
to sit on a corner of the Prophet's tomb in the
dark to hear him
return the salutations of
such outpouring awed adorations of men and women,
each one
passing by that undying presence, trying to
sneak a peak through the golden porthole,
hearts boiling with overwhelming emotions.
You land and sing.
You cock your head.
You watch us from your high perch with a
cool eye.
3
Sparrow, you are more than a sparrow.
You are a continent of sparrows.
You are The Minister of Internal Affairs of all
sparrows.
You are the song that laces the margins of the deep message,
the message of God's Magnificence, the
Thunder of Tremendous Shock, Earthquake and
heaven crash of the
Stark Glare of God's Might.
You trill and fly,
your song like a tiny tune from paradise,
delicate celesta of celestial light.
The mosque in Medina expands
all the way to the
ends of the earth.
Forget about walls, where
marble pillars mark
the mosque's original dimensions,
the Prophet's precincts now
encompass our houses and the
invisible courtyards of our
love, interconnected by
sparrow-song, perched on a
Turkish cornice,
singing to Timbuktu,
Medina song bird
heard around the
world!
12/26
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WHAT ARE
FEET FOR?
What are feet for
but to go around the Ka'ba?
What are eyes for
but to look upon God's House?
What are lips for
but to kiss the Black Stone?
What are hands for
but to supplicate our Lord?
What's the heart for
but to open to His Light?
12/27
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TWO SHORT
POEMS
1
White moth on the
black cloth of the Ka'ba --
Do you know where you are?
2
I had a vision
everyone circumambulating the Ka'ba
turned into tiny white birds
and flew away.
12/28
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LAST TAWAF
On my last tawaf of the Ka'ba just before
Maghrib on the day we
left Mecca,
I spotted the tiny old man I'd seen going
around the Ka'ba almost
every time I'd gone there - in the middle of the
night, just before Fajr, just after Fajr,
in the afternoon -
and decided to do what I'd wanted to do one
morning, but lost him in the crowd: Follow him!
Learn how he does it. This
frail old man, looks like he comes from
Khazakhstan, flat
oriental face with straight straggly white beard,
blind in right eye, turban with tail
wound around
cap, cream-colored old man's
sweater open in front, white
robe to his feet, ratty black socks,
wrinkled neck with shaggy
gray hair streaked with black,
gnarled hands
patiently tapping a
bamboo cane in front of him,
so I fall back behind him on my
first round, I slow my pace to his
snail's pace, and together we
go around the Ka'ba.
The crowd suddenly seems impetuous,
greedy, full of
overblown bravado in all their
youth and good health, booming full-
throated recitations, passionate
energy. He makes no
sound but the tap-tapping of his cane, his
head swivels from side to side as if he's doing
silent dhikr inside, or
because of his right eye, checking his
position as he goes -
people bump into him, he's a
cork on the surf -
quietly determined he heads into the
crowd at the Yemeni corner and
touches it, I'm right behind him, he
heads back out
and sets off for the corner of the
Black Stone and I'm
expecting a miracle, the mad crush of
people become suddenly savage to
kiss the Black Stone
to open gently for him,
but when he
gets to the black line in the marble marking the
Black Stone's position a few yards from the
corner he
calmly turns and salutes it and
goes on.
We do six circuits this way,
very slowly, with great concentration, and I
notice that occasionally men stuff riyals into his
sweater pocket as they pass him, he
takes one out almost astonished and
squints at it, then stuffs it back in.
This happens about three times in all.
Then on my seventh tawaf at the
Black Stone he must be finished, having
started one circuit before
me, and after greeting the Black Stone the
same way as before he
heads left into the
crowd at the gold Ka'ba door with the same
implacable calm, and I
am free to finish on my own.
It's as if I've been propelled by a
booster rocket that's
dropped off.
Even at my
slow pace, with him no longer in
front of me, my gait seems
supersonically faster as I
make my last round.
I had slowed myself down behind him.
I had geared down my impetuous desire for Allah,
my rush to His Light,
my impatient greed for God's blessing
and took it easy behind him, let
everything go, no need to
rush - Allah is everywhere, Allah is
not locatable in time or space --
and saw how wild the world is,
men and women who passed us
so hot compared to this
tranquil cork on the water!
Will he go round the Ka'ba like this until he
drops dead and is carried in on a green
cloth-covered bier for the
funeral prayer?
Around and around on those
tiny socked feet, tapping his
cane,
so content with Allah,
so filled with saintly patience.
1/3
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