Walking to Fajr.
Cool breeze blowing through the dark, twilight sky.
The distorted echo of The Call being carried out by the light morning air, the words mumbled, barely distinguishable.
The melody is preserved, made more sweet by the grogginess of the mind – feels like a dream state.
The only sound is that of The Call and the soft, even, steady footsteps of those answering.
Bodies slowly ascend upon the source.
The streets full of quiet, zombie-like figures, drawn towards the radiance of the minarets.
As you near, you look up to find the sky, illuminated by countless glowing spires.
A calm, emerald dome in their midst, beckoning open hearts to come & speak to their Lord, with whom conversation is better than sleep.