Your bombs and pens like swords, held high, up to my throat. You have made the cost of blood, as cheap as ink and all I think. - Dawud Wharnsby

We’ve digitized the revelations — does our rehearsed recitation go any deeper than our throats? Our calls to prayer they seem to rise up to the skies, conferences and lectures, seminars for you and I. The words that blow away with the nasheed that make us cry, yet why are the drums so silent?

Standing in the market square, so alive but void of life, We work and we sweat and we struggle through each day. As our efforts scar our hands, this world stains us with demands. It’s hard to see life’s humour in the business games we play. As we gnaw our nails with stress, our fists and hearts pound so carelessly. With every effort forward, how much more can we digress?

If we can just be brave enough to be each others mirror, we may finally recognize the face of conscious that we fear.