ASHHADU

Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah.
I bear witness there is no god but God.

But who bears witness to me
to the unspoken devotion in my hands,
that I carry like a sick, thirsty bird?

They say the azaan is a call:
to the faithful, a reminder, a mercy.
It is also a mirror
of my own unsummoned voice;
uncalled, unpermitted, unallowed.

Perhaps this, too, is faith:
to stand outside the gates
and keep listening;
to hear mountains welcome you
and still ask:
if no one bears witness to me,
am I here?
Or is being here enough?

They rise in the town together, these voices.
Some scratch the air, others swim.
Some settle in my spine, others in your chest.
Their notes sung by those whose faces I cannot name,
but whose breath measures my hours.

Five times a day, the mountains learn to speak them;
five times a day, my home reminds me where to turn.

Birds cross the sky mid-verse,
singing, then pausing;
as if to ask:

Can a call to prayer also be a call to awaken
not just to worship, but to witness?
Can a summons to God
be a summons to presence;
to stand, to pause?

And is any truth ever sung alone?
Don’t our beliefs echo through other bodies,
other homes,
other hillsides?