Deserted in a desert of ceaseless distraction,
my throat burns with a thirst for purpose.

The desert,
constantly flooded by rains of possibility,
teases my face with droplets of reassurance.

Yet in those same moments,
the droplets dissolve before reaching my tongue.

As water percolates into the ground,
some perishing as the flames in my belly.
An eagerness so uncanny,
I can almost taste
the mirage of a future set in stone.

What cruelty is uncertainty?

Her warm sands enchant us
when we pray, and still
at night in our sleep,
she blankets us in her cold shadow.

What is next for me?
or rather, what is for me now?
All that is certain in either is Maktub.

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