The hall light is always on,
every night that he is gone,
he hears his mother toss in bed, when he slips in at dawn.

On bookcase by the stairs,
he can see it sitting there,
like a waiting, watchful wizeman, scolding him with care,

In the morning will they fight about him being out all night,
will he resent their gift of love, and not admit that they are right?
All he wants is to fit in some place,
But must he compromise his faith?
He can't look himself or his parents in the face.

He takes The Book upstairs unread,
And sets it close next to his head,
And counts the prayers he missed – and lay so hopelessly in bed.

Oh Allah! He's so afraid to read....