I randomly exist to be
to touch the spectrum in braille
like a mad alchemist who see
through the veil
It is both a blessing and a curse
to see the world with my own eyes
makes everything seems like a rehearse
everyone tries and everyone dies
but what I do, is not a science
To live is an art
'cause if we really live
everything we do is a piece of art
even a gone passion in an artificial world
or artists with eyes of dead artists
all whirled up in fear
as instead of using it as a premiere
chance to give the eye inside
a chance to see through the veil
to be untied and alive

I woke up to a sunrise this morning -
a beautiful pink sky
with gentle clouds of yearning.
My drowsy eyes arduously stared;
(still in a dream) they were not prepared
for what would first meet them - this sight -
when they had closed for the night.

Slowly, my smile starts growing
as, slowly, the sleep leaves me.
The blushing sky whispers.
The blushing sky sings
songs of life, of beauty and wondrous things.

Incredulous, I am rapt.

I can't help feeling undeserving.
After revealing it's kingship
it slowly sings me back to my restless sleep.

I woke up to a sunrise this morning -
a beautiful pink sky.
In the dawn, the only person alive.

What do I write
when the ink has seemed to freeze.

I'll stay up until 2 -
or something like that -
trying to get
some words to drip.

These sleepless nights
leaving me with the wonder
if my veins are imprinted in your heart
as yours are in my skin.

Slips of promises
that twinkle in our eyes
seeming to be strangers.

What is running through these memories.

"Cigarettes are nasty"
smoke flows out of us
onto that slab of concrete
we called home.

Burn marks
leaving the same scar
as your touch.

I chose to hide,
Behind my veil.
In my safe home,
My existence frail.
My identity and my honour,
My own choice to preserve.
Hiding within my soul,
Modesty that i reserve.
Eyeing this dusty world,
Lost treasures of faith
seven virtues for world,
Veil for me is eighth.
Proud of my identity,
happy on my choice.
This is what i am,
Hijab is my voice.

She covers for God
Not you
Are you worthy
Of her will to be true?
To the word
As it is written
Not of man
But begotten
Into the cradle
Of our existence
Heard by those
Who lower their resistance
To what is holy
Not on earth
But in heaven
Where a woman’s worth
Is measured
By the blessing
Of her womb
Life-giving and supporting
Each new creation
Equally touched
By the unseen
But untouched
By sin
Until the apple is offered
By the bare flesh
To our sons and daughters
Yes she suffers
Behind the cloak
Of piousness
Wearing its yoke
Until the strength
Of one man’s soul
Reveals itself
To make her whole
As it was intended
For man and woman
But not before
He has proven
His understanding
That a hijab
Is not weakness
But God’s robe
Which he dare part
To find paradise
In the strength
He saw in her eyes