Bismillah.

Source: Ekhlas

As I thought of what I wanted to say to introduce ‘True Faces‘ by D. A. H. Moore [taken from the unpublished ‘Cooked Oranges’], I realized that the inherently mundane nature of our temporal existence, had once again delayed the expansion of my soul; this must take place after a contraction in our ever-vascillating realm. ‘True Faces’ brought back to me a taste of this expansion by instilling the idea that: even life’s most trivial events are anything but coincidences.

True Faces

The butcher conceals wings under his wraparound apron

The policeman is secretly psychic and can
solve all the cases

The jeweler plucks diamond out of his mouth
when no one’s looking

The dancer levitates alone in front of the practice room
mirror while slowly pirouetting with long
arms upraised

These silent phenomena these invisible heroes of the Miraculous

The surgeon with actual laser eyes who waits a little
when the others blink to look deeply into the
opened patient to the source

The nurse with divinely guided ears who hears
the cry inside the cry and the moan inside the
silent sufferers and the voice of the comatose
reciting its detailed litany and singing its
circumscribed dreams

Nothing is as it seems

The old crossing guard with the big bosoms and thick
glasses who whispers rosy destinies in eight-year-olds’
ears often without them noticing until
twenty years later one morning at breakfast

The florist who lives in visionary anticipation
sending bouquets to bashful lovers or the
recently bereaved signing their cards with
perfect appropriate signatures

The railroad engineer who entertains angels in the
locomotive cabin on those long nights in blinding blizzards
who tell him when to accelerate around curves

The Chinese shoemaker whose ancestors bring him the
next perfectly cut piece of leather or silk to sew in the
middle of the night for the next morning’s
urgent commissions

The abyss opens up in a split second and
releases its evil denizens into the air
The muttering grandmother in the print housedress
gives them a withering glance that
dissolves their wicked intentions forever

The old black gardener in dust overalls who
talks to birds and listens to their sagas and
weeps tears at their aerial travails

This list only indicates a texture often overlooked in God’s
impeccable creation

The light inside the listener that sheds on crystal
caverns where the true tablets lie in heaps
each face a decipherable text that tells our most
secret desires and the cures of the deepest
maladies of our deliverance

those individual afflictions which are
each of our safe passages to Paradise once we’ve

taken each one by the reins and ridden it in

As Salamu 'alaykum and Greetings of peace! If you are new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting!

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