In Medina
At Gate 97
I lower myself to the prayer ground
and gaze into the night—
a sky with only a few patient stars.
Then suddenly they gather:
a soft-winged caravan of angels
sliding along a narrow ribbon of heaven
above the Prophet’s tomb.
When I rise,
they vanish.
When I lie back,
they return—
a shimmer breathed into being
by stillness itself.
To glimpse the unusual,
one must surrender to the earth
and lie down.
