The taste of Rooh Afza lingers on my tongue -
Sweetened but insipid
Hurting the back of my throat like a 
Sour hymn does.
From old plastic cups and rusted tin jugs,
I imbibe water like a withered tree in autumn -
As the sound of the Adhan floats
From not afar. 

The minaret vibrates as the Muezzin shakes the skies down. 
"Ramadan," my father said, "is when He accepts your prayers."
So I prostrate, bow, kneel and weep -
An hour and one more,
God's men and their words turn my plastic insides into craquelure.
"Expunge the remnants of despair that lie within,
rid me of the past that persists," I pray to Him.
My heart at peace, a whispering clamour;
Yet the taste of Rooh Afza lingers -
Now turned smooth and palatable.