The Hashish-Smoker's Grave-Trial Comments

One Friday, amid the fire-veiled throng of the sermon, a hashish-wanderer sat, the vapors of his vice curling like forgotten prayers. The preacher hurled thunder of the Grave—of Nakir and Munkar rising from earth's womb, those hammer-angels who crack the soul's facade to unveil the unprepared self in the Barzakh void.

Fear, that veiled archon, stirred in his marrow, a serpent uncoiling from the root of his being. He fled to the bone-yard of Malkhah, ears sealed to the chorus of caution, eyes fixed on the abyss-mirror of an open grave. There, in its cold embrace, he lay down—thirst his guru of detachment, hunger the whip for his ego, curiosity the hook in his restless soul. Trembling, sleep took him, a samadhi laced with the dreams of bhang.
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