Sadratu’l-Muntahá

Walk with me through the Old Lands,
across a night sky made up by myth
and all the stars we named,
these points of past playing
with your mind, flowing still
in uncreated light;
for it was the love given here,
where none may go further,
which made it all matter.

The Prophet, peace be upon him,
guards this patch of pure shadow
and there is no end to emptiness
where our path peters out,
leaving just one thing;
one more lonely gift to be given
without thought, offered up in ignorance
beneath the wrinkled boughs
of this last Lote-Tree at the end of time.

Hang up the heart given you,
give it back wrapped in the rough cord
you’ll find hidden in these roots,
a single gold strand at its middle,
wound in a language like starlight
from long ago, and not at all,
and deep into whatever future
wanders your way, keeps you walking
with me, hands clasped
like the true friends we have become.

Traces

Desert

Blooms

In the middle