Sparrow on the Prophet's Tomb

O sparrow perched on a corner of the

   Prophet's tomb

cheeping above thousands of bowed heads murmuring,

whose glassy chirps hit high notes of

   purity under the eaves in this

     Mosque of God's Messenger

that resides in two territories of space -

this world seen, the next world

     unseen -

in this shadow existence of his signal presence among us

 visitors from even farther away than

   China pass by to greet him,

and in your little feathered body is the swooping freedom to

  come and go all day to visit him

speeding from a tall beam

  across choruses of hearts

gratefully weeping or tranquil with an ecstatic

     inner moonrise

just to be here.

Sparrow, what is your name? Is it "Constant Devotion?"

Is it "I Want To Be Near?" "Praiseworthy Friend?"

Is your name "Generations To Come?"

You fluff your breast and preen your wing

where men cannot go, you dart into the

dark of the tomb for deeper conversation.

We would all go with you if we could,

squeeze our tiny feathery bodies through the

   gold grille work, past the

     guards in their pea green uniforms,

to sit on a corner of the Prophet's tomb in the

 dark to hear him

return the salutations of

such outpouring awed adorations of men and women,

    each one

passing by that undying presence, trying to

sneak a peak through the golden porthole,

hearts boiling with overwhelming emotions.

You land and sing.

You cock your head.

You watch us from your high perch with a

        cool eye.

Sparrow, you are more than a sparrow.

You are a continent of sparrows.

You are The Minister of Internal Affairs of all

       sparrows.

You are the song that laces the margins of the deep message,

 the message of God's Magnificence, the

thunder of tremendous shock, earthquake and

 heaven crash of the

stark glare of God's Might.

You trill and fly,

your song like a tiny tune from paradise,

  delicate celesta of celestial light.

The mosque in Medina expands

     all the way to the

        ends of the earth.

Forget about walls, where

marble pillars mark

the mosque's original dimensions,

the Prophet's precincts now

     encompass our houses and the

invisible courtyards of our

      love, interconnected by

sparrow-song, perched on a

       Turkish cornice,

singing to Timbouctou,

Medina song bird

     heard around the

         world.