Some are born

outside the circle of warmth.

Some step out willingly,

drawn by a sound

no one else hears.

Love cannot be summoned.

It arrives, or it does not.

The hands that grasp it

close on air.

Expectation is a veil

thin, persistent,

and ultimately shredded.

So the unloved begin the long journey,

moving westward inside themselves,

toward the place

where fire kneels to water

and day forgets its name.

The Sufis say:

empty the heart.

Strip it of faces,

voices,

the echo of being chosen.

Wash it with Zamzam water

that remembers the Beloved—

peace and blessings be upon him….

and leave it bare.

“Adorn it,” whispers the soul.

“With what?” asks the body, trembling.

“With remembrance,” says the mind,

counting the Names.

The inner self does not speak.

It waits.

No one knows

what happens to the unloved.

Do they remain

a hollow cup in the dark,

or does the Beloved

pour Himself

into the emptiness?

The distance is long….

from longing to surrender,

from the wound to the Light,

as long as the horizon

where flame dissolves into blue

remains a dream.

Many fall asleep in grief,

mistaking ache for destiny.

A few keep scraping the heart

until it shines raw,

until it can no longer hold anything

but God.

Others chase reflections,

passing passions,

borrowed warmth,

that melt at first light

and leave the hands colder.

If you are unloved by the world,

do not rush to be consoled.

You may be under preparation,

or simply under silence.

The mystery will not explain itself.

But know this:

if the world does not love you,

do not despair.

Emptiness is not an accident.

The cup is being prepared.