She rose at dawn
and laid the mat,
not from longing,
but from old habit.
She bowed, then sat,
hands curled in form,
but the heart lagged—
a breath behind.
Whispers once lush
now stumbled dry—
echoes of names
once called with fire.
The tasbih clinked
without intent,
rolling bead by bead
without a soul.
She used to plead,
soaking her sleeves,
but now she blinked
and called it done.
Ameen, she mouthed—
not out of...
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