I can hear its ululations within me,            
               its sibilant screams,

     amplified by my horror,       
     channeled through my dreams.

I need to speak of it          
               as I feel it growing within: 
Something sessile,                   

But I fear no one will listen to me,            
                    no one will be able to hear. 

I kneel.         
         There is no qiblah* in front of me.         
         There are no altars near: 
Prayer is not my intention,        
         but I hate inaction,                   
                             and I feel ashamed of my inability 

                                                                                   to speak. 

And questions of identity will remain inurned               
                           in silence and faith. 

Hope dims,            
                              and sanity. 

Many years from now, I am sure,                 
                               I will look back upon these moments,         
             still uncertain, still insecure,         
             and I will blame distances and walls,             
                   but never my battered sense of humanity,             
                   for my failure to cry out, 

                                                          to shriek. 

* The Qiblah: an Arabic word which denotes the direction of Makkah (Mecca), the direction towards which practicing Muslims turn to perform the ritualistic prayer.