Somehow the resonance for me during the entertaining of this title
as an abiding albeit background theme for the poems, was the
perfect crime of our existence: perfect because created by a
perfect Creator. A crime because we get up to such malfeasance all
the time, at the lower end of it, and a crime at the higher end in
the sense that the Sufis often mention, that any existence of
theirs before Allah ta'ala, any flake or residue of their
self-ness, is a crime, a flaw, an obstruction before the Light of
God. Only when you have known a saint (wali) of whatever spiritual
practice do you the sense of a personality honed to its finest
before the divine consciousness, whose actions and words and
thoughts are soaked in divinity to such a degree that the person is
truly human in its essence and effaced before God in His
ever-present and infinitely Merciful activity.
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