In the brochure is sin. A silhouette that speaks with protruding mouth and
gravity that pulls us from vines. It whispers hard into our ears like the fajr
azan, with deliciousness filled with miserable flavours. Sending violence into
our hearts so we live without the melodious voice of God; a rhyme that
leaves our hearts to sabr. Sin is a fabric that blinds the eyes from halos, running our
hands through blood and hard water. Washing light and bliss off our coast.
And this poem is neither a sinner’s meal nor liquor from a righteous one. But a
tossed dice with one probable reminder, that we all have prayers that seeks the eyes
of the most high, through a window that’s free from darkness on both sides. As our
heart is not a lover of vapours that rise, when some of our prayers are washed
into the dungeon by our unconfessed confession. I mean how do our prayers
know heaven when sin sleeps them in dose of valium they cannot resist. See – I know
we can’t drink our sins like wines and neither does it fill our stomach like slices
of bread. But we can marry her out to silent episodes of confessions so we stay blessed and smile with all our teeth. We can marry her out so our prayers meet God. In open rooms with wet vines, for God is often forgiving.


Photo by Alex Gorham on Unsplash