Last night,
my soul wandered where the body could not,
drifting into a dream of Madinah,
where the air itself feels like a prayer
that never finishes its ascent.
And in that dream,
the streets were washed in early light,
and a breeze moved gently
through the stillness,
the kind that carries both peace
and remembrance in its whisper.
There was no distance there,
no sorrow tugging at the edges of dawn,
only the nearness of a place
that heals without speaking,
and a longing that felt
almost like coming home.
But dawn arose,
and the dream dissolved into daylight,
yet the breeze remained,
brushing past the skin
with the faintest echo of that city,
as if Madinah itself
had followed me into waking.
And the heart,
ever homesick, ever hoping,
still turns quietly towards the horizon
waiting for the day
the dream becomes a return.
