How often has the promise been lost,
the fair prospect for the future dashed?
What happened to the wistful tune rising
in the morning, subtle and shimmering,
waiting for a flute like a lover, a twinned melody
to begin a symphony?
All that could have been but is not
can still be; where is the leader with the divine method,
the Rabia of Basra turned national guide,
strong, moderate and wise?
Surely the hosts of Islam contain her,
waiting patiently for her hour.