the final tahiyat

between the shadows of massive pillars,
at the corner of a mammoth space,
lush carpets spread like grasses trimmed,
glistening chandeliers drop from unreachable ceilings,
under the dome as high as the sky,
tasbih beads move slowly,
as faint as the sorrow air,
a tongue twisted with a language foreign to ears,
but sips smoothly in hearts.

though the stained glasses,
lofty tiles, and stairs tall,
outnumbered
the al-Fatihahs uttered,
and the takbirs raised,
the salams given,

it doesn't matter,
as long as he has his tasbih,
a sajadah worn out,
a kopiah he got from Medina,
and a little green Qur'an tacked safely.

and at the corner of a mammoth space,
he waits for the muezzin he knew,
to hear a voice familiar,
to resonate through the chills of empty halls,
empty spaces to be occupied,
empty hearts to be purified.

the tasbih beads paused,

he steps to a saf familiar
with breezes of the last wuduk,
soft mists flew as he fixes his kopiah,
old eyes look down,
wrinkled hands locked.

his flat forehead touches the ground,
his body reflects no sound.
to what he believe, but he visually didn't found,
but it doesn't matter,
as, as long as he believes,
and as the tasbih beads move,
the God he knows,
is always around.

and at the corner of a massive place,
he sits down, slanted,
testimonies said,
forefinger raised,
finishing what is final,
what is left to a life breathed,
and to a world full of greed.

fil alamina innaka hamidum majid.

the final tahiyat,
the last salam.