My mother lies on my lap,
pearls of sweat falling off her skin.
This ablution pierces me,
soul to bone sans water;
“I think I am ready for prayer now.”
Her hair is a Satin thread,
that branches through my fingers.
A prayer rug maddened to feel
the burden of my forehead.
I run my sinful hands between her hair to confess;
“I confess that I yearn to pray now.”
She sings me a lullaby.
Each night I sleep,
I am drawn closer to God.
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God himself cradles me in His lap in return;
“Mother dear, He tells me,
that I am worthy of this prayer now.”
My blood numbs itself in my limbs.
Her breath feels like verses
that put my veins to sleep.
Oh how pure and holy my lap is
Resting her pious head on it
She has whispered God’s secrets to me.
“God knows I know all the right words for this prayer now.”
Don’t wake my mother up
from my fortunate lap.
I have yet to learn
the soulful love she possesses.
Is this the meditation the Saints talk about?
“Oh then tell them,
I’ve finally unearthed their way of praying.”
