Credit for the theme that inspired this poem goes to my dear brother Muhammad who volunteers with the Naqa organization in Leeds, U.K.
I'm weary of this jungle now,
Deceit is in the air:
I rest my hand upon a bough
To find a serpent lair;
I reach out to a rose and feel
The prick of bramble thorn;
I see how beauty everywhere
Can danger well adorn.
But on must I go till I reach
The garden that I seek,
Eternal in its peace of which
A mortal cannot speak,
And as I walk along the way,
I come across a man
Who, standing on a dusty path,
Is holding out his hand.
Although I don't know why I'm drawn
To him, I will attest
That standing here I sense the dawn
Of purpose in my breast.
I look into his kindly face
And take his hand, as he
Bestows on me the sweetest grace
A smile could ever be.
And through the wilds he leads me on
This path he knows so well,
And teaches me a word that helps
All kinds of harm repel.
He warns against the bramble rose
And snare of mossy bough,
But tells me of the leaf that blows,
Yet on its way somehow.
And when we stop to rest a while
He shares with me a spread
Of nectar words for drink, and soft
Remembrances for bread.
I ask him whence this blessing came,
Of which he tells me more
Of all the good and mighty men
Who'd come and gone before.
Then on we tread this path of peace,
He never leaves my hand
However sharp the cut of wind
Or treacherous the land,
We travel on until we hear
The babble of a stream
And find ourselves so very near
The waters of a dream.
And here my teacher leaves my hand
Commanding me to cross;
Although prepared for this command,
I dread the coming loss.
He looks into my wretched eyes,
Assurance in his own,
Which helps to make my courage rise
To face this stream alone.
"I've braved the jungle, what's a stream",
I think as in I wade,
But in degrees the banks recede,
And sight begins to fade.
What once was stream is ocean now,
The waves are dark and high,
I'm overcome, but then somehow
I find the strength to cry
To God for mercy as a wave
Returns me to the stream,
That I may as returning slave
My wayward self redeem.
Ascending to the grassy bank,
I can't believe my fate,
For standing now before me is
My guide in silent wait.
He takes my hand and walks me to
A garden smelling sweet,
To meet the mighty men who I
Have ever longed to meet.
As I approach the last of them,
A fountain comes to light,
Beside it sits my Sayyidee
His face is shining bright,
He fills a cup with water still:
This man that we adore,
And by his hand, I drink my fill
To feel a thirst no more.
SallAllahu 'alayhi wa Sallam.
And take his hand, as he
Bestows on me the sweetest grace
A smile could ever be.
And through the wilds he leads me on
This path he knows so well,
And teaches me a word that helps
All kinds of harm repel.
He warns against the bramble rose
And snare of mossy bough,
But tells me of the leaf that blows,
Yet on its way somehow.
And when we stop to rest a while
He shares with me a spread
Of nectar words for drink, and soft
Remembrances for bread.
I ask him whence this blessing came,
Of which he tells me more
Of all the good and mighty men
Who'd come and gone before.
Then on we tread this path of peace,
He never leaves my hand
However sharp the cut of wind
Or treacherous the land,
We travel on until we hear
The babble of a stream
And find ourselves so very near
The waters of a dream.
And here my teacher leaves my hand
Commanding me to cross;
Although prepared for this command,
I dread the coming loss.
He looks into my wretched eyes,
Assurance in his own,
Which helps to make my courage rise
To face this stream alone.
"I've braved the jungle, what's a stream",
I think as in I wade,
But in degrees the banks recede,
And sight begins to fade.
What once was stream is ocean now,
The waves are dark and high,
I'm overcome, but then somehow
I find the strength to cry
To God for mercy as a wave
Returns me to the stream,
That I may as returning slave
My wayward self redeem.
Ascending to the grassy bank,
I can't believe my fate,
For standing now before me is
My guide in silent wait.
He takes my hand and walks me to
A garden smelling sweet,
To meet the mighty men who I
Have ever longed to meet.
As I approach the last of them,
A fountain comes to light,
Beside it sits my Sayyidee
His face is shining bright,
He fills a cup with water still:
This man that we adore,
And by his hand, I drink my fill
To feel a thirst no more.
SallAllahu 'alayhi wa Sallam.
