Mosque

The marble holds the morning.
Blue sky settles over it without effort.
Visitors drift through the courtyard
speaking less than they did outside.

Domes rise cleanly above us.
Minarets lift their narrow lines
into a sky that offers no answer.

We cross the polished floor
and watch our shapes move beneath us
as if the stone remembered water.

The doors stand open.
Sunlight rests on the walls.
Somewhere a faint scent of jasmine
passes and is gone.

Inside, the chandeliers hang low—
glass and light, excessive perhaps,
though the room accepts them.

Color falls quietly on the marble.
People look up for a moment
then lower their eyes again.

The walls carry long lines of script.
Names shaped carefully in stone.
Even without knowing them
one understands the intention.

We stop speaking.
The air is cooler here.
Silence settles in the arches
as if it had been waiting.

I say a short prayer,
not loudly, not expecting reply,
only the usual requests
for mercy, endurance,
a little steadiness.

You stand beside me,
your scarf catching the light.
For a moment it seems enough
simply to be here
without explanation.

Places like this remain
long after belief changes.
They continue doing their work
holding stillness
for whoever happens to arrive.

When we step back into the sun
the domes are bright again,
white against the sky.

And though nothing has altered,
we leave more quietly
than when we came.