I sit in my wheelchair
beneath the silver hush of night,
and the moon hangs above me
like a patient shaykh,
listening to the secrets
I pour from the trembling cup of my heart
and to the single wish
I release into the wings
of a holy winter night.
A young man flies past on his motorbike,
a spark escaping the dark,
and the moon bends low and whispers,
“Wake up, beloved…
this world has bound your body.”
But my soul
old traveller of unseen roads
smiles with a quiet knowing
and answers gently,
“Yes, my body rides on wheels…
but my spirit rides on God’s wind.”
For the real journey
is not of legs nor distance,
but of yearning.
And even from this humble chair
I stroll through gardens
no eye has witnessed,
where no limb is heavy,
where every breath becomes a prayer,
and every dream returns to me
as light.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 10:22 PM UTC
I sit in my wheelchair
beneath the silver hush of night,
and the moon hangs above me
like a patient shaykh,
listening to the secrets
I pour from the trembling cup of my heart
and to the single wish
I release into the wings
of a holy winter night.
A young man flies past on his motorbike,
a spark escaping the dark,
and the moon bends low and whispers,
“Wake up, beloved…
this world has bound your body.”
But my soul
old traveller of unseen roads
smiles with a quiet knowing
and answers gently,
“Yes, my body rides on wheels…
but my spirit rides on God’s wind.”
For the real journey
is not of legs nor distance,
but of yearning.
And even from this humble chair
I stroll through gardens
no eye has witnessed,
where no limb is heavy,
where every breath becomes a prayer,
and every dream returns to me
as light.
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