Inadvertently I poured
Few drops
Of my cold blood,
Into a glass full of sweat,
Distilled from the scorched roses
That wilted under a pitiless Sun.

Half I drank
In defiance of
Of the statutes of Purity
And with remaining dregs
I made my ablution
In the dark of night;

And ever since
I have been waiting
for the Muazzin’s alluring call.

Will there be a morning again?

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