Read in The Name of your Lord,
Who created the clot of blood,
And dipped into it, a submissive quill,
So ingenious lines may be brought together,
Together with enchanting curves,
Shaded with colour of subtle tone,
Slightest details carved to perfection,
And visualised as grown Men and Women.
How come we all don’t look the same?
But we’re a million million different portraits -
Perhaps even more!
Imagine the imagination to conceive -
- so many manifestations!
Each one different from the other,
Each one unique outside and in,
Inside, hidden under deceiving beauty,
Feelings and thoughts and consciousness,
And contraptions of miraculous operation,
All neatly joined and put together,
Where are the screws -
Through which they were installed?
Through which the service man gains access?
To oil and maintain all the moving parts -
Every so and so years?
But it runs,
Except when I defile it,
With rotten food,
The Book of Creation!
This is only the first paragraph,
And the book in size, inhibitive,
It continues, as if infinite,
Each word full of signs,
Of a Loving Author,
Who is He?
I guess the trick is not to look,
But to read.
Turn the page.