The Door That Dissolves

There are moments, brief, precise, when a man says something so base, so soaked in the rot of his own limitation, that something ancient stirs in me.

Not ego.

Service.

This quiet voice says: “God would not be upset with you, he may even smile if you turned this man into a eunuch—without blade, without blood, or with it, does it matter? Let his soul never know what was taken until the day of his death, when a rose petal note is handed to him. Written in lavender ink: 'The Bearer of Glad Tidings took your manhood away. You never noticed.”

And yet… just as the fire curls around my fists,
an angel whispers:

“But how much more would God love you
if you transmuted this injustice into a deeper realm?
What hidden palaces of power would open,
if instead of conquest,
you chose creation?”

So I do not destroy him.

I rise above him—not in arrogance, but in mourning.
Because I see the higher version of him.
The one he could have been.
The one he may never meet.

I feel sorry for him.

Not because he hurt me.
But because his tongue reveals his own prison.
He thinks he is speaking to me.
But he is only echoing inside the walls of a mind too small for freedom.

And I?

I walk past.

I don’t throw stones at the cage.
I write verses that make the door dissolve.

And I pray that one day he walks through it.

وَاللَّهُ يُحِبُّ الْمُحْسِنِينَ
“And Allah loves those who act with excellence.”
—Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:195