Last Wuzu

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