The Nest
The Nest
Nested in the abode of never-ending
happiness, in the resting place of
coming to the place of no existence,
They had no form.
Beginning from end to start, they are
the limitless ending mirage,
calling out from a place of nowhere.
Some have called them infidels, others
have called them the faithful, but if
you as me, I will say they are the
Taqwacores.
You will not find them in a feverishly
wondering state of without glory of
divine wake moving in their veins from
heart to heart, becoming heedlessly
praying and footlessly singing the
praising Allahu arkbar.
Look among them there, you will find
no good or evil, in fact, there is no
pronouncement from them that carries
this molten plastic waste, no, instead,
they are drunk with the fruitless
yearning of Renunciation’s drinking
cup, for the naming of the name
they call out to the Self naming Self.
So cast away the staring eyes that
stubborn heart calls you to bare at the
crossroad of saving grace. I am found
dumb struck at the sight of this
tradition obliterating saving tradition.
If this is your state, close your eyes
and open them again, you find them
beyond the tradition of traditions.
You can call them castaways, what
does it matter? From their lips there
are no names that could be found to
come from the mirage of their
existence worthy of saying
Taqwacore.
So they made themselves to appear as
the name.
What?
Did you forget?
Did you remember that they are
the heart that the sweetheart marvels
over in the courtyard of merciful
breath?
They are at the place where you said
Yes.
That place where the faces say before
they are born.
That place called forever more.
Look there,
And how did you find them there at
the crossroad of the soul of Adam?
You know, those who are
circumambulating the circumference
“His eyes say yea, ‘in the heaven of
your glance brought me to the tower
of I am the drop in the apple of the
eye.” It is the mystic bound of calling
cards, the rig element, seen
descending from their heaven to your
earth and your earth to their heaven
making it all come to be known as “This
is the unseen world of beauty that
molding nature gave.” Call them what
you like,
it doesn’t matter,
they are the Taqwacores with
sweetheart of their daily bread, it is
the mystic-ship on it’s way to the
bewitching hidden joy.
You, yes you, come along with them to
the enamored city of rightful balance.
Why are you protesting? And what is
this strange language that you speak
at this place of moving rays?
O, fair child of beauty, it is for your
sake that the Taqwacores entered the
tavern of lovers, the place where soulful
birds nest.
Look now, when you enter into the
rest house of no existence, following
the lovers of the abode, the
Taqwacores. You will find that no
form is the limit of the limitless
wonderers. They are feverishly beginning
and ending in endlessly becoming.
Sometimes they could be found in the
desert of rays dancing in the mirage,
Forsaking the habit of yesterday gone
by while being the headless footless
dwellers in the light upon light.
