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“Crackling.. “ No, not in the Outer World… In the Rural Peace, the City’s Own Symphony of Life in Metropolises… Children’s Voices in Schoolyards, Birds’ Chirping in Trees… These “Crackling” Sounds are not Outside, but inside me, far in my Depths… Many a Fault Line has been Broken… The Sounds of Many Aftershocks… That’s all I hear… In Front of a Syllable Stone, “Handfuls Left to Pray” Gather the Sounds of a Grave, I hear it with my Hands, Not with my Ears. Maybe my spine is on the foot, my cracking soul… A soul support that I can stand on from my blood, my soul, my kinsmen to my enemies… People are pouring out their hearts in front of the syllabic stones, some have given their fresh corpses to the ground, some are diving into a meta world that has opened up in the syllabic stones… My dome of heaven, collapsing inside me, is cracking… “You wanted a sign,” says the voice inside me, “A symbol,” A symbol for my prayers… A morning that is the same as Qurrete, A hand winks at my cracking places.. I cry… A bird touches my spirit with its wings, a bird speaks inside me… The ringing voices disperse, a sigh of relief spreads, That which is made my existence drink.. I can now leave the Mihrab, The Lord will pray for the family of Ibrahim, He will scatter blessings on the ground.. The symbol freezes on the syllable stones, The symbols are glazed over.”