The french Aubusson rug lay before him
Its chandelier face the great city
A beam of light forcefully projects
Reflecting off the ornate fixture
Into his face temporarily blinding him
His life flashes before his eyes
As he kneel down on the silk rug
The soft threads rubbing against his knees
He hesitates, in fear of the sun
Not due to its projecting light and his blindness
But because of what it had caused him to see
He lay disconnected from this world
Money, fame, and status meant nothing
He remain servile and weak
All his indulgences, an abomination
He thinks to himself
‘Why? I am nothing, but your slave
There is none worthy of Worship besides You
You are far exalted and above all weaknesses
Surely, I’ am from among the wrongdoers’
He lay there in silence
Unable to prostrate in confusion
The sun slowly starts to set
Darkness sets in like a serpent in the night
He shivers, his hands and feet cold
Surely, the most biting cold
A cold breathing chimera
He stand, one last time
Finally able to concentrate
Only to realize that a sincere mind
And a sound heart
Is his only connection
To the place he so solemnly longed to find