Wayfarer

Footsteps

I’m weary of this jungle now,

Deceit is in the air:

I rest my hand upon a bough

To find a serpent lair;

 

I reach out to a rose and feel

The prick of bramble thorn;

I see how beauty everywhere

Can danger well adorn.

 

But on must I go till I reach

The garden that I seek,

Eternal in its peace of which

A mortal cannot speak,

 

And as I walk along the way,

I come across a man

Who, standing on a dusty path,

Is holding out his hand.

 

Although I don’t know why I’m drawn

To him, I will attest

That standing here I sense the dawn

Of purpose in my breast.

 

I look into his kindly face

And take his hand, as he

Bestows on me the sweetest grace

A smile could ever be.

 

And through the wilds he leads me on

This path he knows so well,

And teaches me a word that helps

All kinds of harm repel.

 

He warns against the bramble rose

And snare of mossy bough,

But tells me of the leaf that blows,

Yet on its way somehow.

 

And when we stop to rest a while

He shares with me a spread

Of nectar words for drink, and soft

Remembrances for bread.

 

I ask him whence this blessing came,

Of which he tells me more

Of all the good and mighty men

Who’d come and gone before.

 

Then on we tread this path of peace,

He never leaves my hand

However sharp the cut of wind

Or treacherous the land,

 

We travel on until we hear

The babble of a stream

And find ourselves so very near

The waters of a dream.

 

And here my teacher leaves my hand

Commanding me to cross;

Although prepared for this command,

I dread the coming loss.

 

He looks into my wretched eyes,

Assurance in his own,

Which helps to make my courage rise

To face this stream alone.

 

“I’ve braved the jungle, what’s a stream”,

I think as in I wade,

But in degrees the banks recede,

And sight begins to fade.

 

What once was stream is ocean now,

The waves are dark and high,

I’m overcome, but then somehow

I find the strength to cry

 

To God for mercy as a wave

Returns me to the stream,

That I may as returning slave

My wayward self redeem.

 

Ascending to the grassy bank,

I can’t believe my fate,

For standing now before me is

My guide in silent wait.

 

He takes my hand and walks me to

A garden smelling sweet,

To meet the mighty men who I

Have ever longed to meet.

 

As I approach the last of them,

A fountain comes to light,

Beside it sits my Sayyidee

His face is shining bright,

 

He fills a cup with water still:

This man that we adore,

And by his hand, I drink my fill

To feel a thirst no more.

 

SallAllahu ‘alayhi wa Sallam.

(Naqa thanks you Khalid for the inspiring verses)