The calling
The minarets turn from the winter clouds,
so full of threat and snow.
And now they almost bow,
reach down to all that walk below.
They sway in rising (falling) vowels:
this Friday chant that tells all true believers,
that God is great and God is waiting to receive
their prayers and their submission
and their love;
these mosques now filled with dreams and expectations,
that this is the house of the living God;
this the place of miracles and longing;
this the place where they remember,
all ships must once return to one horizon,
that all is carried on the breath of this vast ocean;
where they remember,
God is great and God is love
and will reclaim their bodies,
when they’ve done their soft stage dying
and the flesh has turned to bone.
The minarets are swaying in the wind.
I watch and listen
but I know another centre and another storm.
I cannot share my love,
my dreams,
my far horizon with the crowds,
the other true believers.
Mine is a silent call,
a different calling
and all my prayers rise to you.