Every pulse in me,
every hidden thread of the soul,
quivers to receive you—
into a home that waits
like an old prayer,
whispered too often,
too late.
No moonlight now
graces the courtyard floor,
no laughter dances along the walls—
only shadows remain,
where once your footsteps traced
the rhythm of belonging.
This was once the ground
where our clan gathered,
where voices braided like rituals.
Now we drift—
scattered, silent,
dust upon dust,
looking upward
to the Qibla,
to the sky,
seeking some sacred glint
from Arfah’s plain—
the place of knowing,
the place of return.
And there,
a scent,
a murmur,
a memory stirs:
“This is the face of Eid,”
it whispers,
“the true light,
gleaming now in the eyes
of our child.”
He has returned—
our dawn,
our long-lost flame.
He arrives soft-footed,
blessing the wind
with the hush of his breath.
And he calls—
not in command,
but with the ache of love:
“Father, are you there?
Won’t you come now—
to welcome me?”
And I stand still,
knowing
And…there is Ashwaq,
Keeping you in her lap,…
“You distant ruler of crowns and coins”
“This—
this is our king,
the sovereign of our sorrow and joy,
risen not from thrones,
but from memory,
from light,
from us.”
(Berlin 17thJune:2025)
Dr.Rafeeq Masoodi,ibs
(Berlin 17thJune:2025)
