There are no atheists in foxholes, says the aphorist.
And, Life, is a foxhole, retorts the mystic.
Rubbing Shoulders
My Life is thinking of me, again
and wondering …
whether I care for it
what it means to me
and what I make of it?
It fears that I take it
for granted
It worries how I spend it
or save it
with whom I share it
It knows I do not know
all that it knows
that I forget what I do
but, it shrugs this off:
another lover’s quarrel with the world
For, at heart, it is certain,
I cherish it as sacrament
and when we think of one another
it feels like harmony of the spheres
or rubbing shoulders with Destiny.
© Yahia Lababidi
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