The Night of Destiny

Certainly. Here's the English translation rendered as a single, polished literary paragraph, preserving the mystical tone, poetic imagery, and unique eloquence of the original Arabic text:

Night was not night, but a translucent outpouring of the unseen upon the eyelids of creation—time melting within it like ice in the eye of an invisible sun. The bowing was not an act, but the earth whispering into your bones: "Bend, for something unnamed is passing through you." Angels do not descend; they evaporate into the pause between your breaths, as if the entire cosmos were condensed into a single gasp. Supplication does not rise; it coils beneath your tongue like a dense orb of light awaiting its first detonation. Sins are not forgiven; they shed their skin and leave you memoryless, as if you were not born of sin but of the trace of water with which the unseen performed its ablution. Time does not pass; it hesitates, blushes, wraps itself around you, then dissolves in the sweat of a kneeling body unaware it had become a substitute for time itself. All you thought was prayer was merely rehearsal for stillness, and even your silence, which you mistook for weakness, was speech in a language yet to be discovered. Destinies are not written; they fall like the ash of light from the wing of an angel whose message was burned by a glance. Dawn does not rise from the east; it emerges from your rib the moment fear of God vanishes—not because He has forgiven, but because you have melted enough to no longer be yourself. And in a moment that occurs outside of place, the prostration calls to you—not to prostrate, but to abandon you, leaving you a trembling heap of light atop soil that is no longer soil, but a soft waiting for an eye created solely to behold you.

~Firas Alwaily