Sunset and sand. Near the well of Zam-Zam, outside the Kabba, dusty pilgrims end their sojourn.
We share a common humanity. As kings have reached out to grasp the Kaaba’s black stone, we too reach out, twirl like dervishes, or squat on prayer rugs, coiled up like spiders with our kabair (big sins) or saghair (little sins), not wanting, really, to throw stones, only enjoy the magic carpet ride.
Though arches hold up kalam (theology), skulking beneath gold domes, we feel so cold, dirty with petro-dollars, questioning Ali’s metempsychosis or what-not, wondering if we might, or might not, be blessed.
a camel shakes his head
and walks on