We fold our lives compulsively
Staring smugly at corners lined up so neatly
Smaller and smaller until it fits in our back pocket
Still a nuisance to remember that
We are still alive so fold some more
Until the sum of our emotions and feelings
Bulk upon the seventh fold
And the notion of who we are
Collapses upon itself
We are inside this paper somewhere
Suffocating beneath the crease
They find you lying lifeless with it in your hand
And there are words scribbled on the wrinkled page
There are words telling us to read
And there are things that cannot be compressed
Thoughts of where this is all heading can't be left
At best it still rips through the corner of the page
And shreds of paper, of purpose, fall just the same
Read! In the Name of your Lord, Who has created (all that exists),
He has created man from a clot (a piece of thick coagulated blood)
Read! And your Lord is the Most Generous,
Who has taught (the writing) by the pen.
He has taught man that which he knew not.
Nay! Verily, man does transgress (in disbelief and evil deed).
Because he considers himself self-sufficient.
Surely! unto your Lord is the return.