Birth brings provision, a name and a number of breaths.

Puberty brings marriage.

The crescent marks the beginning of Dhu’l-Hijja,

and death the reckoning.

Archimedes was driven by water

to the troughs of the water-wheel in Sham

to irrigation of Andalus, then

south to the mill-stone of the Darqaawa,

learning not to be donkeys.

As the dwarf reflected, he burst into song to the Lord of the woods, thanking Him for driving him away from the common order of men and women by his disabilitous shyness.

For submission is, as it was, as it will be, and people are as they were as they will be.

Ay, there’s the rub.

La bague de mariage n’est qu’un signe d’être sur vos gardes que le mari ne soit réveillé; le lit nuptial une prison à vie, car il n’y a pas de place pour la deuxième, la troisième ou la quatrième; et une maîtresse alors? bah, où est-elle dans le canon du pape? autre que dans l’histoire des papes.

And here the commentary:

https://send.firefox.com/download/0dc3319238139f4b/#2ouZ5NS_XuyFKb6u8NVJdw

To date, negativity from “do what you like in the realm of sex” and “think what you like in the realm of inaction.”

Today, positivity from the unveiling of the various forms of hypocrisy via the apparent freedom unlimited of absolute humanism: the people of taqiyya have no need for concealment – all the better to know them; the people of nifaaq have no need to either: their outward appearance corresponds to their inward and so their clothes, their way of being, their speech, their brazen outing of their selves reveal all and ease obtains in no longer having to fathom who they might be.

All the more time then for clarity of thought.

“Quel dilemme de la pensée rationnelle”, a déclaré le sage au philosophe, “nos chères autorités ne reconnaissent pas la deuxième femme d’un homme, ni la troisième ou la quatrième.”
“Alors”, dit le philosophe, “qu’importe – leur mariage est sûrement reconnu par Allah?”
“En effet, mais en ce qui concerne les prestations d’assistance sociale versées aux pauvres parmi les deuxième, troisième ou quatrième épouses, on les reconnaît en tant que citoyennes et en tant que contribuables éventuelles, et ignore toutes les amies, maîtresses ou concubines.”

He had sat 27 years, too long it seemed beneath the neon lighting of the over-heated office. When asked what he did, his face for some considerable time contorted in wild grimaces of pain and embarrassment – before he was able to answer, “at the tax authorities”. May He awaken him to the natural blossoming of man and beast and flowering fruits to still his, may one call it, conscience.

“They call it Steuer” he said “for it has to be supported – from mittelhochdeutsch stiure, althochdeutsch stiura = Stütze, Unterstützung; Steuer, eigentlich = Stütze, Pfahl, zu stauen, verwandt mit Steuer”, a fine etymology, for sure, but did nothing to heal his pain.

He was a good man; unaware, however, of Jünger’s Arbeiters.

“Why are some bits fard and some bits sunna and some bits mustahabb?”

he asked unwittingly.

“So she can do it fast when the croc appears, briskly when the northwind blows and at leisure then the sun appears.”

Three in all, one larger leading, but gathered in one étincelant flash, schillernd in the rare Med. sun of the north, three aras from that half of the island in Nusantara or from the Sud Americas perhaps, but in fact fleeing freely flightly from the local zoo on the Baltic. “An opening for sure” he said,”like that of Rilke’s caged panther”. “Yes! indeed, three muses, after we had talked yesterday of Sulaiman’s hudhud, the Wiedhopf might have called them up, its sister birds overreaching it in splendour and exoticism”. “But why, where’s the wisdom?” he asked. “O Wachet auf!” said Bach and see Him who inspired me.” So we woke up together and woke others – for the aras arrested us in time’s moment to point to the Greater Time of man and woman’s life, broke us out of the moving steel box as it kept aligned to the regulatory white road lines beside the Tierpark, stopped the car for just a moment, only to move on in the trafficked rush of forgetfulness.

The three could not now return to their aviary; would rather die in the snows of the north.

Are its changing tentacles becoming darker? its hunt for the small fry – resigned to the obligatory schooling in literacy in order to read the daily press and of course the tax forms; submitted to enforced payment of octopuz tv and radio; accepting of coerced jabs for health’s sake – when 13 of a hundred normal cits are winos, 18 hypochondriaks, 14 with ment-health issues, 29 in deep debt, 15 druggies and a whole lot more of zomboid insomiaks unable to follow the enlightened discours – is becoming more difficult.

It has swum into a rock pool, unable to rise, colours fading, visible for all to see. The gastro-man from the pizza ghetto may spot it and may yet give the coup de grâce.

It has time to reflect as the hungry sun dries its skin to leather: “The more small fry, the less my Maker, for I am intelligent and despite my machinations, came from HIm”.