𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕,
𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊.
𝙰𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖,
𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎.

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎,
𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝’𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝙶𝚊𝚣𝚎,
𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚑𝚜 within
𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚎.

𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚛
𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 long 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋?
𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 my 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠.
𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 my 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎.

𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 remain 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍.
My 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚛𝚝,
It 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚢 shaky 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎
𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 failing 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝.

𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚡
𝚘𝚏 my 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎.
𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚡 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 a 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝,
𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 a 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 the 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍
𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 the 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.
𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗.
𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚜 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍

𝙾𝚑, 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 divine,
Gift my 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍.
𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝 down in𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 body
𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍.

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚢 that's 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝,
Living only to 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎.
𝙸 am at odds. I'm a division.
I am a soul 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.

De𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, let it 𝚙𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚎
𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖s 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕,
𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 can see the 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚜
𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 in 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕.

And w𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑,
𝙼𝚢 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑,
Gift my life to meet your eyes.
L𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚢 on, 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚢.

Work out—
Let your body speak:
Flesh stretching,
Fibers straining,
Blood pounding,
Mind alert.

There’s a list—
Push-ups, planks, presses—
Each one chasing the same prize:
Strength.
Discipline.
Endurance.

But one remains unsung,
Unseen in gym mirrors,
Unlisted in fitness charts,
Unshared across the globe.

It is the exercise of the unseen—
A sacred training:
Prayer.

Not whispered ritual,
But a fire-breathed posture—
Spirit clenched,
Soul bending,
Body bowed low.

This workout unbinds:
Spirit ignited,
Soul awakened,
Mind renewed—
A trembling reach
That brushes the robe of God.
Spirit meeting Spirit,
Deep calling unto deep.

They call it prayer.
But I—
I know it as sweat of the soul.

For while the body gains little,
The one who presses through to touch the Divine
Is changed.
Expanded.
Exalted.
Magnified.

Oh God, I already knew from the first moment I met you that I would never be like the kids of my age: every night I went to my knees and prayed, it was not a prayer of peace, nor of tranquility, in fact I remember crying and sometimes screaming: ''My God deliver me from this flesh, from this sinful body and let me go with you''. Meanwhile the sweet little friends of mine slept in their homes, not knowing anything.

"I don't think he was on his lunch break, he was still on the job as he couldn't get time off for Ramadan."

"Yes, he was fasting, still on route and could not get of, so with the need to pray, he chose to do so within his short break before he changed routes."

" Wisdom to him was knowing that he must pray."

"The room was dark and his skin was a shadow that could be seen by those who noticed and looked closely."

" I noticed, so I looked closely.
He placed the newspaper down on the ground."

"?"

"At first I thought it was the wipe up the ***** that could have found but then he knelt down."

" I was puzzled and I knew my face showed it ... so I watched him, my head cocked to the side, eyes fixed, I chose to reside, I was conscious of those around me, buses that passed slowly, but, he had me fixed, awestruck, so I chose to reside."

"He bent over, head down, mumuring words; I could not make out the sounds."

"And then he stood up, head down, head up, I could not make out a sounds."

" I knew I should have looked away, that it was a private moment and I was disturbing it, but I was not the middle man for his prayers."

" I was the onlooker, curious of  the man who made a newspaper his prayer-mat and the bus, his prayer-room."

" So I watched, three minutes go by, eyes fixed, this one kid sees me staring and follows my gaze, tracing it back to the earnest praying man."

" Then he looks with me, then it's us, it's us watching him; the man on the bus with his paper-mat."