Mere Allah…

A beautiful Hamd done by Junaid Jumshed. I believe it was written by Mohammad Ali but I can’t confirm that.  Have a listen.

Soni Dreams

The purpose of this post tonight is to really preserve my memory of a dream I had earlier today.  It is one of the dreams I have had in a while that have stuck to mind and allowed me to wake up feeling good.  It is also one of the first dreams in a while that have not been a nightmare.

The dream starts off with I and a bunch of other people that I know of who wish to start a magazine.  During the course of getting this magazine off the ground we go onto a journey where we develop a school(s) for the less fortunate.  And Mashallah we are successful.  I remember that there is a girl that was with us who is with us the entire time.  She’s the one that is responsible for the operations of the magazine.  She was East Indian and had a red Indian suit on.  Her hair was shoulder length.  Throughout the trip, she would always be beside me, talking to me, smiling and whatnot.  I remember feeling a sense of caring coming from her.  Her smile clearly indicates this. What happens next is the part that I really want to preserve.

 Our entire group go into a Mosque.  I have a bike for some reason and I take it into the mosque with me so that it doesn’t get stolen.  At first, the Mosque is quite small, there’s only room for a handful of us.  I take my bike and lay it near the wall.  More and more people start to fill the prayer hall. I remember that the carpet in the Mosque is blue and we’re all standing in rows.  As more people come, we more towards our right ever so slowly…almost inching our way to the right hand side.  The more we inch our way to the side, the bigger the Mosque gets.  All of a sudden, I find myself in the most beatufiul Mosque I’ve ever seen.  And not only is it incredibley beautiful, its massively large.  I remember being in awe of how large a space this Mosque covers.  We aren’t inching to the side anymore, we are now literally walking comfortabley inside it.  I remember that we walk past this grave yard that is inside the Mosque, a massive graveyard.  The graves are kept in such a way that they are shaped with what seamed like limestone with a shape that is of an arch sitting on top of a rectangle (I hope you get what I mean).  The colour of the graves aren’t white but they aren’t aged either…just the colour of the rock.  I believe there are some mazars in Pakistan that may have graves shaped like this.  We walk past a body that has been placed at the side of the graveyard, in a cuffin (a white cloth) waiting to be buried.  Next, I remember turning around gazing across this massive Mosque.  There are people there from all walks of life.  I distinctly remember two (possibley three) gentlemen of Oriental decent (possibley Japanese) with long thin mustaches and beards working away on some sort of loom shaped machine that is cutting through stome.  They are wearing their traditional outfits and there is a cloud of dust from the stone lingering around them.  I also remember a large abnormally shaped pillar shooting straight up from the ground with a moat type surrounding around it.  Even at a distance, this structure looked huge.  There may have been some trees or water decorating it but I cannot recall.  The Mosque itself resembled parts of the Harem, with arch after arch circling the entire distance.  The archs were accented with green lights at certain angles.  I remember turning to someone and commenting on how I wish we had a Mosque like this in our city.  This comment is the same comment I had made earlier in the day to a group of friends I was talking to. 

Soon after, we find a spot to sit and we sit down.  The same girl that was in the red suit has now changed.  She’s not wearing the red dress anymore.  In fact her entire appearance has changed.  She becomes the form of someone that I had met and talked to earlier in the day (we’ll call her “S”).  “S” is now wearing a hijab, a brown printed top with a leather jacket.  “S” and I are talking and I can feel that there is something going on between us.  I remember I could literally feel this warmth inside of me when I spoke to her.  Its the type of warmth that one would feel when in the presence of their wife (I am only assuming here).  I remember, she offers to get me a drink from a stand nearby and I could just feel the warmth radiating from her. 

This is unfortunately, where I wake up.  But when I woke up, I felt good, I felt warm and I knew that my day was going to be better simpley because I had this dream.  The day far exeeded my expectatios.  We ended up going to a family friend’s house tonight.  My dad and this friend have known each other before I was born.  The amazing thing is that my dad is around 30 years senior to “N.”  “N” also has a wife, “H” who is probably the epitome of the ideal wife.  She is not only beautiful from the outside, but she is just as beautiful, if not more, from the outside.  Both are warm, sweet and caring people.  I always look forward to going to their house because “N/H” get alone so well with my parents.  We ended up staying very late at their house tonight.  It was honeslty one of the best nights I’ve had in a while.  There’s something about watching one’s parents laugh and joke and be happy that cannot compare to anything else.  Throughout the night, “H” constantly reminded me of “S,” though the resemblance was not there. 

Getting back to “S,” I don’t know her all to well.  But I saw do a presentation a few weeks earlier and I was very impressed with her demeanor, mannerisms and the way she spoke and carried herself.  Her character and personality type is very rare to find.  Moreover, she is very articulate.  I beleive that the softness that she possesses and her true expressions of innocent love were displayed before me in this dream. 

I don’t know why I had this dream.  I don’t know why it took place in a Mosque.  I don’t know anything at all.  But rarely have I had a dream like this and I wish to preserve it in my memory for the rest of my life.  The other dreams that had a similar effect on me have perrished  in an ocean of lost thought and time but hopefully through this entry, it will be preserved.   I can safely say that today was honestly a good day. 

Tears Of My Pen.

 

I sat at my desk one night.

Intoxicated by memories of you,

I picked up my pen and began to write.

Verse after verse I wrote

About your hair, your lips, your love.

Verse after verse I found it harder and harder to write.

It was my pen.

It began to leak ink.

Very soon my paper was blanketed with blots of black.

I realized soon after.

It was amazing; the very pen I was writing with

Was shedding tears.

They were not tears of joy nor were they tears of sorrow.

I held the pen in my hand and looked at it.

The ink, the tears, began to leak onto my fingers.

In the midst of trying to figure out why

It spoke to me, words which one would not believe.

 

O Keeper

Son of the Patient Peasant

Master of the Language of Poets

Seeker of Truth

Spreader of the seeds of knowledge

Humble servant of God.

It is through you that I am who I am.

I am of service to you and therefore owe you the ink of which you demand

Every time you sit at this desk to write.

It is only through you that I learned about this world in which I take up space.

It is through you that I learned the joys and sorrows of life.

It is through you that I learned about the God that both you and I worship.

It is through you that I learned about science and math; the very languages that God himself proves his existence to us.

It is through you that I learned about the Great Elders of Hind and Punjab who spread the word of God.

It is because of you that I sing Heer’s name and Bulleh’s Kafi.

It is because of you I remember the Gurus that walked the very land on which we live.

It is because of you I learned what it is to love another soul

It is because of you I am able to feel the pain of a broken heart.

And it is because of you that, tonight, as the rain pours down on the fertile soil of the five rivers that I cry in your hand.

I cry tonight as these thoughts blanket me, devower me

With a sense of everlasting greatfulness

Something I fear I can never thank you enough for.

 

Bewhildered

Touched

A tear of my own rolled down my face.

I continued to hold the pen in my hand

Unmoved to the ink staining my hand.

 

Dear Pen

For it is me that should be thanking you.

It is because of you that I have been allowed me to share my wisdom, knowlege, passion and love with this world.

It is because of you the world knows about God and his Messengers, Gurus and Peers.

It is because of you people are aware of injustice.

And it is because of you that I sit here tonight and share my love of her with the rest of the world. 

It is because of you that I celebrate love with the colours of word and prose.

My dear Pen, this is all because of you. 

You are what made me.

Your ink is what has made me.

Cease your tears dear friend.

It is I that should be crying

Tears of appriciation and indebted-ness.

You are among the greatest gifts from my Creator.

 

The ink stopped flowing out. 

I could not believe what just happened.

I looked at my paper.

Drenched with the colour black

It looked like the ocean on dark moonless night.

It surrounded the first line of my poem of you

As if that first line were an Island.

 

I took the peice of paper as is

And hung it over my desk. 

 

-mast malang