The Play

800px-r-staines-malvolio-shakespeare-twelfth-nightThe Play
What is reality
But a reflection
In His pool,

What is life
But a sigh,
A moment when
He gives the sign
And says, “I love thee.”

What is death
But the end of a play,
And the unmasking
Of an actor
Temporarily animating
A vessel of clay and water.

I asked my son, Mikhail, how was his exam today. To which he replied glumly, “Okay.

Okay?” I responded.

Almost in a whisper he confirmed this, “Yess… Okay, okay.

Oh you mean, OkaaaaAAAY…!!” I said, teasing him.

No, no, Papa.” Mika clarified, carefully losing the exuberance in the word. “Just… okay.“, Then he continued, “I don’t want to raise hopes, Papa.

I smiled at his wariness, then I explained, “I am afraid that is impossible, Mika. The moment you were born, you raised our hopes.

Mika and Me 1Thus you see, it doesn’t really matter how fleeting our life here may be. Nor how illusory is the reality we inhabit in our costume of water and clay. As a father or a mother, as a son or a daughter, we are all inexorably linked to Hope – upon the assurance of the Loving Lord God. So until next time, sunshine, may we play our roles as best we can, remember our lines and don’t bump into the furniture.

Oh, my child!
My hope was dead,
Then it was rekindled
When the Lord raised you
From my grave,

Yet I have nothing to give you, my child…

But the Lord?

Without end
He gives and gives and gives!

wa min Allah at-taufiq

Hate has no place in Islam
Love will show the Way

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