What Falls Away Without Being Noticed

يَسْقُطُ الغُبَارُ وَلَا حُجَّةَ تُطْلَبُ،
وَلَا صَرْخَةً تُسْمَعُ.
وَتَنْكَشِفُ السِّتَارَةُ—
لَا مِنْ فَوْقٍ، بَلْ مِنْ دَاخِلٍ—
لِأَنَّهُ لَمْ يَكُنْ هُنَاكَ شَيْءٌ
يَحْمِلُ النُّورَ.

Dust falls;
no argument is required,
and no voice cries out.
A veil lifts—not from above, but from within—
because nothing was standing there to hold the light.

تَنَهُّدَةٌ لَمْ تُجَابْ.
سُؤَالٌ لَمْ يُنْطَقْ.
نَظْرَةٌ طَالَتْ قَلِيلًا،
ثُمَّ سَقَطَتْ قَبْلَ أَنْ تَسْتَقِرَّ.
وَكُلُّ فُرْصَةٍ مَنْسِيَّةٍ
تُصْبِحُ جِدَارًا مِنْ زُجَاجٍ.

A sigh unmet.
A question never asked aloud.
A glance held one second too long—
then dropped before it could land.
Each forgotten opportunity becomes a wall of glass.

يَقُولُ العَقْلُ: «سَيَأْتِي الوَقْتُ».
وَلَكِنَّ البَصِيرَةَ لَا تَمْشِي بِمِيعَادٍ؛
إِنَّمَا تَهْبِطُ
إِذَا انْفَتَحَ لَهَا الحُضُورُ.
وَإِذَا صَرَفْتَ بَصَرَكَ—
قَطَعْتَ خَطَّ النَّظَرِ
الَّذِي كَانَ سَيُظْهِرُ لَكَ وَجْهَكَ الحَقِيقِيَّ.

The mind says: "There will be time."
But insight never arrives by appointment.
It arrives only when presence opens the way.
When you glance away—
you break the line of attention
that would have shown you your true face.

يُعْطِي الحَبِيبُ صَفَحَاتٍ،
وَيَتْرُكُهَا العَاشِقُ مَطْوِيَّةً.
وَبَعْدَ شُهُورٍ—
تَحْمِلُهَا نَسْمَةٌ لَمْ يَلْحَظْهَا أَحَدٌ.
وَمَعَ ذَلِكَ، فَهِيَ مِنْ حِلْمِهِ.

The Beloved gives pages.
The lover leaves them folded on the table.
Months later they blow away
in a breeze no one saw.
Yet even this is part of His patience.

يَتَذَكَّرُونَ بِغَيْرِ انْقِطَاعٍ—
لَا بِجَهْدٍ، بَلْ بِرِقَّةٍ.
لَا يَتْرُكُونَ بَابًا مُفْتُوحًا،
وَلَا يَجْعَلُونَ المُقَدَّسَ
خَلْفِيَّةً صَامِتَةً.
فَإِذَا نَسُوا،
فَبِقَصْدٍ—
وَيَصِيرُ النِّسْيَانُ حِكْمَةً.

They remember without interruption—
not through effort, but through tenderness.
They leave no door ajar;
they do not treat the holy
like background noise.
So when they forget,
it is on purpose—
and even that becomes wisdom.

يَسْمَعُونَ بِنَفَسِهِمْ،
لَا بِعُقُولِهِمْ فَقَطْ.
وَإِذَا نَظَرُوا إِلَيْكَ،
تَوَقَّفَ الوَقْتُ عَنْ التَّنَفُّسِ؛
وَلَمْ يَسْقُطْ غُبَارٌ فِي تِلْكَ اللَّحْظَةِ.
وَتُسْتَقْبَلُ كَلِمَاتُكَ—
لِأَنَّهَا تُلَاقَى
بِشَيْءٍ حَيٍّ.

They listen with their breath,
not only with their mind.
When they look at you,
time stops breathing;
no dust falls in that moment.
And your words are received—
because they are met by something living.

هُوَ لِمَنْ يَعُودُونَ إِلَى نَظْرِهِمْ—
لَا عَنْ ذَنْبٍ،
بَلْ عَنْ شَوْقٍ.
فَيَرَوْنَ:
كُلُّ فِكْرٍ كَانَ دُعَاءً،
وَكُلُّ نِسْيَانٍ
جُرْحًا فِي بُسْتَانِ المَحَبَّةِ.
وَيَرْجِعُونَ.
وَيَمَسُّونَ مَا قَدْ تَرَكُوهُ،
فَيَجِدُونَهُ دَافِئًا بَعْدُ
مِنْ نَفْسِ قَصْدِهِ الأَوَّلِ.

This is for the ones
who resume their gaze—
not out of guilt,
but out of longing.
They see:
every thought was once a prayer;
every forgetting,
a wound in love's garden.
They return.
They touch what they once abandoned,
and find it still warm
from the breath of its first intention.

خَاتِمُ هَذَا البَابِ الثَّبَاتُ:
لَا شَرِيعَةٌ جَدِيدَةٌ، بَلْ وَلَاءٌ قَدِيمٌ—
وَلَاءٌ يَقِفُ مَعَ أَهْلِهِ
بِلَا اعْتِذَارٍ.
وَمَنْ قَرَأَ هَذَا البَابَ
ثُمَّ عَمِلَ بِهِ،
كَتَبَ الحَقُّ اسْمَهُ
بِالْحِبْرِ، لَا بِالْغُبَارِ.

The seal of this chapter is constancy:
not a new law, but an old loyalty—
the kind that stands for its own
without apology.
To read this chapter
and then act accordingly
is to let Reality write your name
in ink rather than dust.