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“The Night of Glory is better than a thousand months…it is peace until the break of dawn.”
—The Holy Quran, 97:3-5
. . .
Thick, feverish air swells in soft billows,
falling like gossamer over soundless trees,
a whisper lost between the minutiae
of trembling grass shards.
Their souls brush against one another,
flush against the wax skin
of their counterparts as they sway in unison—
the plants mumble invocations, calls to
painted skies.
If I told you about that night—
about those feelings that wrap
& knot around
tongues in an inextricable manner,
about the path that opens once a year
for humans who seek clemency beyond
earthly domains and delights,
about God’s descent to our plain,
the lowest heaven—
would you believe me?
The night is alluring, tinged with the scent of roses from the Gardens,
from promised lands that humans dream of, and lined with the mystic
of the nocturnal world.
I stand in the last third of the night with my legs on the brink of collapse,
my knees scraping against the prayer rug for the thousandth time
as I hold my hands together and fill them with the moon itself,
cradling liquid gold as if it were to spill from the slightest opening.
And the words get caught between my lips,
breaking off in silent syllables that are carried through the breeze like flowing water.
I am joined by the other handful of devout souls that stand during this time,
our hearts swaying as our wishes mesh together in thrumming harmony,
silence overtaking our trembling forms.
The night provides sanctuary for the ones who dare to meander through nature with open arms,
calling to those who reach into the darkness for answers.
Its call is sweet, tasting of the finest cider siphoned from life’s delirium.
