a shovel strikes the soilin the ancient citybayn-al-jabalaynbetween the two mountainsthe red soil turnsstrike after strike a golden axe glimmersrendering…
Is there still hope for me? From dust, I was brought into the world. And to dust I shall return. Yet I wonder, have I spent these years well? Have I served my lord well?
April 2005 “Raa-fia?” the physician’s assistant called out. I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to be here. “Please…
“There are giants in the sky,” I whispered to my little cousin, tucking her in as I flipped to the…
The banquet hall Kanwal stood in was reminiscent of every desi wedding and fundraiser she had ever attended. Crisp white linen at right angles, expectant silver chafing dishes along a buffet table, winking LED crystal chandeliers.
Across the sea of luscious full trees, basked in the honey glow of the sun, animals tract in herds, prides, and flocks over the land. One boy swung lazily in a makeshift hammock with his eyes closed, soft snores sailing from his lips.
The sound of my heart thumping reverberates in my ears. All I can hear is the thud—banging against my ribs like a drum.
In Jannah, inshaAllah, I pray my home will be made of many rooms, each one holding a memory of those dearest to me. One of those rooms will be a red-bricked house, part-dorm, part-home..
if ever one life was placed before
the other, radiant and beaming forth
then paths of grass would justly be laid
instead of roads, cemented and paved
