the pleasures of dunya
are sparkling white sand.
Soft and glittering
warm beneath your tired feet.
But watch as you gather handfuls,
squeezing your fingers against your palms,
gripping and grasping,
watch it spill from the very spaces
you thought would hold it in,
watch it catch the breeze and fly from you,
like it couldn’t get away fast enough.
Watch each soft, glittering, warm speck disappear
into the billions that look just like it.
And so you learn to be content with walking, sitting, playing, laying on it,
but never taking it with you,
Because you realize that when you want to go Home,
you’ll need to brush it off of you, anyway.