The cloud formation on top
Told us that this was going to be
A monsoon eve. We went indoors
And took a poem from Neruda, toying
With a woman’s anatomy, that to me
Was as sensuous as making love.
I knew the world we’ve inherited
Doesn’t live in superstition, which to
The old-fashioned pilgrim, is faith.
And still, “what makes me a believer?”
I question this time and again.

I’m like a grotto on an acacia tree
Where you can put a lantern
The faith lantern, or I’m the inverse
Of those hungry for wanderlust
Or crazed love making. Still I don’t denounce neither.
I’m like that wall of Jericho that sits
Still and marks a perimeter,
Of the oldest continually living metropolis,
Where faith is more ancient, more relevant
Than any scroll, or shroud.

And I look at those specimens
Of the new world, the questionnaires
That they possess, and the catalogs
They call bucket lists. I don’t envy them.
I’m like a moss covered stone
Who is at ease with the moss, the slimy
Growth on my cover, knowing I’m
Just an interface of palms
And an ark of faith, holding together
A journey on beads that takes
Me to my promiseland, where incertitude
Is just as barren as a dessert, and hope
Lives like a far-away oasis, and the bible,
What else but those dromedary camels
That take me to and fro,

From doubt to conviction,
From Moses sands to Abrahamic springs.

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