If God forgot me

for just one night,

I think I’d light a candle

inside my stomach

and call it mercy.

I’d sit beside my shadow

and braid its silence

into something almost holy.

Let the night come—

without psalms, without perfume.

Let it sit beside me

like a ghost too tired to haunt.

I would take my grief

and split it open

like overripe fruit.

Maybe then,

something sweet would bleed.

If  would leave my homeland

in the hands of wind.

And  would write my name

on every broken wall

until language forgave me.

Then the minarets would bow,

but not for prayer—

only for memory.

Because memory, too,

can kneel.

I would speak to the olive trees

And the daffodiles:

Tell me,

when do roots stop listening?

Then 

I’d kiss the earth

where his voice once stood.

Let the dust keep it.

Let the dust be God tonight.

And I would wrap the moon

in an exile’s blanket

and offer it tea.

Not because it is cold—

but because I am.

If God forgot me—

just for one night—

i would not scream.

I would not plead.

I would write,

until ink became a second breath.

I would sing,

until silence leaned forward

to listen.

And i would be

for once,

enough.

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