Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Bidya Mosque

This is a sleepy fishing village
Off the eastern coast,
Away from the glitz of neon lights,
Away from skyscrapers touching the heavens,
Away from busy people whose every action
Screams 'Look at me! I am important!'
No, in this little mosque
All is quiet, tranquil.
If you listen carefully,
You can hear the waters of
The Gulf of Oman
Crashing onto the sandy beach.
There is nothing else.
On a Friday, sacred day,
There will be a steady trickle
Of visitors:
The faithful, the pious,
And the plainly curious,
Along with some tourists
Always identifiable
By the pouts and poses
For selfies and facebook statuses.
Soft cries of Allahu Akbar
God is great!
And then it is quiet again
In this quaint mosque
400 years old
Built of mud and stone
Four circular domes
Vestige of an Ottoman past?
One never really knows.
If you listen carefully,
Amid the deafening silence
You can hear the voice of God.

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Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Bidya Mosque

This is a sleepy fishing village
Off the eastern coast,
Away from the glitz of neon lights,
Away from skyscrapers touching the heavens,
Away from busy people whose every action
Screams 'Look at me! I am important!'
No, in this little mosque
All is quiet, tranquil.
If you listen carefully,
You can hear the waters of
The Gulf of Oman
Crashing onto the sandy beach.
There is nothing else.
On a Friday, sacred day,
There will be a steady trickle
Of visitors:
The faithful, the pious,
And the plainly curious,
Along with some tourists
Always identifiable
By the pouts and poses
For selfies and facebook statuses.
Soft cries of Allahu Akbar
God is great!
And then it is quiet again
In this quaint mosque
400 years old
Built of mud and stone
Four circular domes
Vestige of an Ottoman past?
One never really knows.
If you listen carefully,
Amid the deafening silence
You can hear the voice of God.

No comments:

Post a Comment