If “the future is an illusion
And the past, an interpretation”
Hence, in this awakening humming rests a consolation
“I am home. I am here and in the now”
Because surely
In the present is a fascination
In the here
In the now
I met a scholar of Islam
Arriving from Kuwait, a Mauritanian man
But we met in neither
It was not our fate
Until in India when he soared toward us
His soul landed first
Fluent and translucent
Yet just like yours and mine
It remains a secret
Even from a mystic
The root to the self is a thin line
A small body followed
Loose and buoyant
The complexion of white Lenin on dark African skin
A big smile filled with adrenaline
Not of joy, but of a harmony
An awareness of what is in
He sat on the edge of a wooden chair
Recited poetry
On the ceiling he held static, a ponderous stare
We glided like birds emigrating from one land to another
From one era into the other
On waves. On clouds
Not filled with raindrops, but with emotions
From lovers to loved ones
Investigative of God’s creations
Until he set us loose
And right before I drown in my thoughts
Down the staircase he went
He vanished behind his white robe like a superhero
When I asked where he had disappeared
I was told to prepare us some Mauritanian tea
That the Muslim Arab generosity would not be recognized, he feared
He had mentioned that this tea is what makes him memorize, narrate, and see
Never alone
He sets the fire
Inviting guests through its smoke
A passerby, a visitor, or an outlier
Like the old Arab habit that he had elaborated on
Making us feel like foreigners in our ponytails, t-shirts, and sweatpants on
He told it so articulately
His lips dancing to every Arabic vowel
Even the deaf could read through this elaborate movement
Hatim Al-Tai used to tell his servant
Lighten, as the night is glacial
And the wind, you who lit the fire, is grating
Hoping a passerby would notice your fire
If it brings a guest, you are free
أوقد ، فإن الليل ليل قـر و الريح ، يا موقد ، ريح صر
عسى يرى نارك من يمر إن جلبت ضيفـاً ، فأنت حـر