I don't know how many times I was asked about my truth, and I kept on confessing them through my unending metaphors. Because I couldn't explicitly tell how the story was going or may be it is because I have decided to keep everything celled away from the realities of other souls.
And more than understanding, I will only get but distaste in my character, a doubt for my qalb, and stain of reputation. So I will but confess them to the winds that blows, through the waves that crashes, to my own shadow that burns in the dark, only to be Heard by the Rabb of my qalb Who already Knows the rhythm of its beats.
The night is never innocent to what I neither deny nor profess, to what I never mention yet never forget, to what I never show yet always intend. The night heard the silent sounds I made. The night have seen what in the morning fades.
Oh Rabb of my qalb, You alone Knows what they but don't.
— Veiled Poet | Unending Metaphors
