Loneliness is a shrine—
a small, inner mihrab
where the Face of the Real
glimmers through your own.
Yet the same shrine
may become a prison,
for truth, once seen,
does not permit escape.
And when you walk outward,
into the bazaar where masks are bartered
and honors lie measured like saffron,
the toll is heavy.
You must spend the gold of your breath,
dull the clarity of your voice,
veil the pulse rising from the heart’s decree.
You will taste your own silence,
pluck wisdom from your teeth,
and polish yourself
into a brightness not your own.
You will move among merchants
of borrowed virtue,
sip the froth of easy speech,
and weigh your quiet
against the world’s demand for noise.
For every step outward
costs a little light—
for this world asks the soul itself
as the price of belonging.
Only the inward traveller
keeps their gold;
only the solitary
returns whole.
