Aqimussola

The mosque was my sanctuary,
My refuge when the smog of life got too heavy,
When Dunya turned gritty, and stopped its pretty,
The domes from which there were plain ones,
And ones worthy of envy,
Became my homes,
(For there were many.)

The quiet settling of dust from the books in little shelves,
The soft shuffling of slippers at the stairs before people washed themselves,
Sacred, preparing to meet their Maker,
Cast away the daily grind that just feels faker,
With all those days that flit by without meaning,
The peace in prayer became redeeming.

But then you age,
And these eyes that used to close for meditation,
Just can't seem to shut anymore for fear of manipulation,
You read and you see that the world needs to change,
That we should be wary of the strange,
Or maybe we shouldn't,
I don't know,
But maybe the learned ones can guide us from a certain range.

But the wise ones with their beards remained lying nurses,
When the cancer spreads in your shell,
And they tell you to always remember Heaven
And always remember Hell,
"It will all be okay"
You don't need to know the news about pollution today ,
Or corruption, all dismay,
Let's leave these innocent souls in our zikrs when we pray, (Amin)
And remind ourselves to hate our big abstract Doomsday. (Nauzubillah)

Oh and all our enemies!

The Zionists, the dissenters,
The Shiites, the Westerners,
Sometimes Qadyanis, sometimes Ayah Pin,
Occasionally those video games that make you go insane.

The mosque was my sanctuary,
But now in my calm, I get angry,
I can't have my khusyuk or thoma'ninah,
When the khatibs don't talk about WHY there are bombings in Madinah,
Or when there were other problems at hand,
They wanted to talk about fruits, and the health benefits of rambutan,
Or when greed seeped into our states and our federal systems,
We chose to talk about vape in our respiratory systems.

Do they take us for buffoons?
Do they think if they stay long enough in this cocoon,
They will become these God-loving butterflies,
With their own promised kingdom on the moon?
I mean, I know our symbol is the crescent,
But let's stay on Earth for the present,

Look man,
Maybe we don't need a Luqman,
Speaking in riddles about moral philosophy,
And respecting your elders,
Embracing humility,
Luqman is good,
But not without context,
Devoid of real world problems, with nuances and pretext.

The preachers from other pulpits laugh at our sanitized sermons,

Our khutbahs come with slides,
Because there's a format for our propaganda persons,
And even if no one important is laughing,
At this scripted - redacted- babbling,
Your congregation is asleep!
Doesn't that at least make you ask "What's happening?"

But you keep blaming our faiths,
Our lack of istiqamah and conviction,
Never slapping yourself in the face,
And the state of your positions,
When you're fed by a body that doesn't want you to disagree,
It gets harder to speak relevance, it gets harder to be free.

I get it.

And the mosque is still my sanctuary,
When I want to forget the world,
But when the world is loud and scary,
And is begging not to be forgot,
Let's pray we all check our ignorance,
Before we answer ourselves to God.

Aqimussola.