Mosque

Here, within your white, white walls I can stand Alone with You, the Alone; Away from the whispers of the world That bleed in my own heart; Away from fleeting and fancy, From the torment that thirsts In my own soul. I have felt you, near the rivers of my heart, As if on the verge of a great promising. I have sought you, bitterly, in broken lives Of people twisted over by the world’s disasters; I have not heard your voice, even faintly, In the loud ramblings of imams who explain Your justice as if it were a trite thing. I know you are not trite or easy: The path to you is always long; I know I am never fit for your presence, I am forever beneath your language, I am unworthy of your paradise; I am not fit to fall before you. But when O when will you hear The voices raised of those Who have erased their lives in your service, As if on the verge of an eternal reckoning; Who have killed their ambition Brought their lust to kneel Who have murdered their passion In the coldest of blood-feuds. When will you hear the cry of Those who have died for you?