Ouyooni

If the sky would ask me to bow to a tree
and said for it held the deepest roots,
for they reached to the doors of my heaven,
I would ask to be shown the face I know
that should identify me the light at the tower
where I would stand, and listen to the cry
of a mother for her headless child, body
cage-less, on a spear where a noor would go
further through the curtains to meet with God;
there I’d bow my head after the names told
for me to follow the scents of hanoot and kasturi,
and breathe in the expansion – the donors castaway –
as I wait for my horse to take me to the tree
of the coolest shade, my lips drink the sweet
nehel from the hands of my master; there I shall
see my eyes exalted for having cried
in remembering yours.