Bliss is like the breeze
It blows and flows through the earth with ease
With calm grace, keeping good pace
Pulls us mere mortals down to our knees.

Bliss is the first embers of the rising sun
Shining down in rays through blankets of leaves and wisps of clouds
Through the study-room window, forming patterns, it prowls
And settles daintily on walls of cream.

Bliss is the first step into the house of my childhood,
The vast structure that is a warm embrace of memories.
The walls tell tales, the bad and the good,
Dripping greenery like a faerie-cottage from the stories.

Bliss is early-morning air,
Carrying the sweet tresses of a night only just passed,
A kiss to the skin, an inhale of life,
And a soothing caress to the heart.

Bliss is the scent of a paperback novel,
The crispiness and cream of a page
Into which life has been breathed – by inky blackness –
Life of adventure or romance or fantasy or rage.

Bliss is the first glimpse of the moon in any form,
Through the trees: waxing, waning or crescent-bellied,
The harbinger of a new lunar month,
Every one a step closer to Ramadan, time of prayer and peace.

Bliss is opening the Book with a kiss and a nod
To its hardcover embossed in words of old and new,
Words of peace and warnings and forgiveness and good tidings,
Of the heaven we blindly, subconsciously pursue.