Last Wuzu
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
He can not hear his own last azan, Rifting through the living,
They undress him, from his fine suit of black plastic
Lays there naked, on the cold steel table,
Aren’t you cold? Should I give you my coat?
Stretched long and thin, Eyes, mouth, nose and ears are shut covered stuffed with cotton
He can not hear me
Temperatures drop, this is his room now
Sounds of his last azan, men saying Shahaadah,
Wind and rain find their way to his calling through the walls
Ripping the black veils, of Women crying inharmoniously
Members of a Philharmonic for the dead
Rifting through the living
He is turned over like a heavy sack
Here Pressure drops, in an oxygen low atmosphere of an alien plant, hard to breath
Tears irrigate, the arid sound of screams trapped inside me
I am here and ten thousand miles away
He seems confident, in his solitude on the cold table, Listening to his music
Look at me, call my name, call me a name, just open your eyes, Show your anger for the way they turned you over
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
This is your Ghusl, Showered with fragrant,
To wash you sins, of belief in Sartre and Niche, instead of your last Azan
You were the sommelier of Pride and lust, now decanted
When you cross over the valley of death, you will break the wheel that was to break you, bring warmth to the freezing water and change to wine the boiling oil in the Cauldrons before immersing your self.
Face open, eyes looking up, They lower you, In the prominence of the entrance to a mosques, amongst believers, foreign to you
You are reincarnated
Good by father