Golden arches of glass embroidered pictures; they transcend, hover over the sleepless souls bounded by the altar of a gods runway.
Souls of the aching and poor; the rich and grateful; the troubled and lost. They embellish in the words of centuries old tales as they kneel in the presence of an entity above; heavens aligned as the broken hearted plea for help that the common streets filled with broken glass and dirt cannot answer.
Women bow down on mystic carpets as their silk headpieces elongate their tired faces; pleading with the islamic chants that their children will grow in prosperity instead of being forced to grow up early to the beats of firearms and drums of bombs. Drowning their sorrows in the palms of their hands as the bells of the north ring in the horizon.
The smoke incense of lavender travels in to leaves of a false jungle; tales of the mystic and spiritual beings in a forsaken town are brought to life in the hands of a monk, peacefully awaiting the call to the gods of the unknown and love.
I ask you mother, what is your faith? Can you catch it, place it in your pocket and keep it? Do you find it on your way to the store in the city streets? Do you even have a faith? Or are you simply following others in segregated story tales and thoughts?
Her faith derives from the gold chain around her neck with stones of the Maine waters that her children once trotted on. It is in the first glance of her newborn baby out of the womb, that her faith is caught.
He finds his faith on the bus ride home glancing out the moving window uncovering snapshots of the sunset over the project buildings and scaffolding. The voices of the restless and busybodies swift through the bus seats and into the ears of a man who has his last dollar in his pocket and no woman to hold.
Gods of likeness and entities; tell me your secrets and how my grandmother whispered sayings into our ears as children to rid the evil from getting us. Wearing the blue and white eye to protect the inner child in me; the chinese elephant that sits upon my night stool; the corn behind my grandfathers door; the tea leaves laid out on my patio; tell me of the sorrows you hear and why so many hearts are engulfed by your beings.
I do not know religion or why bodies of people are found engulfed in the holy lands of war, or why people go to church every Sunday, or why people don’t eat beef or pork. I don’t know why my father says an excerpt from the Qur’an every day or why my brother hates going to church. I do not know why people have such a belief in the sky above their heads or why rain falls down after a never ending desert drought.
Maybe, its because the reality of our nightmares are far more better in the hands of a single entity, ridding us of the troubles we plague our minds with. Perhaps, faith is just that moment when you wake up in the morning, and look out the window in awe of the sun peaking through the clouds. Or the moment you hear your favorite song on the radio for the third time that day and you feel complete satisfaction.
Or just maybe, faith is realizing that there has to be something or someone responsible for your soul being; watching over every mistake you make and leaving you signs to find your path. Or maybe faith is simply, listening to birds chirp as they contemplate on flying.