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He reads my words and then he frowns. ‘I want to hear your true voice,’ he mourns, ‘I was expecting something deep, something meaningful.’ But this is my true voice; this is what I am. We are the Pharisees in his mind, devoid of the spirit and light. If only, he weeps, we were as the Disciples, spiritual and deep. If only, but we are what we are. The sufi demands that the light of Ihsan permeates my being, but I’m still stuck on stage one, struggling to implement my Islam. And so my words eternally disappoint, sounding shallow and weak. But isn’t that as it should be? True words come from above.