For earnest quest, a soul must strive— The seeker, truly, brings truth alive. She spied one night, with sharpened eye, And saw the scene that made her cry: Through a crack, the truth was laid— The donkey and the girl engaged. The beast was mating her like a man, As if by reason or some plan. Struck with envy, she exclaimed, “If this be so, then I’ve more claim! This donkey is mine, well-fed and trained, He eats at my table, by my light remained.”

She acted cool, then knocked the door, “Hey girl, how long will you sweep the floor?” She masked her rage with calm pretense, And said, “Dear girl, open the fence.” The girl, in silence, hid the gear, Then came and opened, without fear. She frowned, with teary eyes so dim, And licked her lips—“I’m fasting,” said she to him. A soft broom in her hand she held, As if to clean the house and make it smelled. As she opened up the door, The mistress muttered, “Oh, mentor, for sure... You frown and sweep, broom in your hand— Yet the donkey’s loose and cannot stand. Half-erect and angry, twitching still, His eyes fixed on the door with will.”

She whispered low, “The girl has kept this beast Like a wronged prince, in secret feast.” Then she said aloud, “Put on your veil, Take this message to so-and-so without fail. Say this, do that, and don’t delay— Thus ends this tale in a woman’s way. Take the essence, leave the rest— The wise old crone had laid her quest.”

Drunk on lust, she beamed with joy, Closed the door, her voice now coy: “Thanks to fate, I’m finally free— No more rent or debts for me! Ecstatic, wild with craving’s flame, The donkey too was not the same. What goat would stir such fiery thirst? For this, no goat could quench her first! Lust makes deaf the heart and blind the mind— A donkey seems like Joseph, pure and kind. Many, drunk on fire not light, Mistake the flame for truth so bright.”

Only God’s servant, or one drawn by the Light, Can see the path and turn toward what’s right. He’ll come to know that fiery lustful dream Is but a borrowed shade, a fleeting gleam. Lust paints the ugly with beauty’s face—Of all the plagues, none worse in the Way’s trace. It turned sweet names into disgrace, Made countless wise men lose their place. It made a donkey seem like Joseph fair—Then what of Joseph, under lust’s glare? It turns dung to honey with its spell—Then what will it do to honey as well? Lust comes from food—so eat with care, Or wed, and flee from evil’s snare. For once it enters, it demands its price—Your earnings spent in sacrifice. Thus marriage came, a sacred rope, To guard you from the devil’s scope. For the greedy man, a wife is best—Else the cat will steal the lamb from rest. Put the heavy load before the beast jumps high, Lest he leap, and your chance pass by. You don’t know fire’s nature through mere word—So don’t dance round it, if you’ve never heard. If you know not fire and pot and flame, You’ll burn the pot and lose the aim. Water must be present, wisdom too, For the pot to boil, and not break through. Since you lack the craft of forging steel, You'll burn your hair and beard with zeal.

The woman shut the door and dragged the beast, In joy she sinned, and paid the price, at least. She brought the donkey to the bed, And lay beneath him there instead. On the very seat she’d seen the maid, She longed to taste what pleasures stayed. She raised her legs, the donkey thrust— And filled her with his fire and lust. Trained he was, yet bore down with might— And crushed her organs in that fright. The blow of that beast’s dreadful rod Tore her belly and guts apart, by God. Without a cry, she died right there, Toppled from the bed, legs in air. Blood soaked the house, shame spread around, Her soul by death’s dark angel bound.

A death so vile, so filled with shame— Have you seen a martyr die this way, in God’s name? The Prophet warned of hell’s disgrace— Don’t lose your soul for lust’s embrace. Know this: your lustful, beastly soul’s a donkey— And lying beneath it is far more wonky. If you die in lust's flood, drowning in sin, Know, your fate is like that woman’s within. Our souls take shapes to match their ways, It shows as donkey if that’s how it strays. This is the secret shown on Judgment Day— God have mercy, flee your beastly clay! God warned the disbelievers with fire's fright— But they said, “Shame is worse than fire’s bite.” He said: “No! That fire is the source of shame, Just as this fire brought the woman blame.” She ate beyond her rightful share, That bite of greed became death’s snare.

Eat in measure, greedy man— Even if it's sweets and jam. God Most High gave the Scale a tongue— Read Surah Rahman, from whence it sprung. Don’t let your greed break that scale’s might, Greed and craving lead you from the Light. Greed devours, consumes the whole— Worship not greed, O fool of soul!

The maid walked on and sighed in pain: “O mistress, you led the master in vain. You tried the task without a guide— And so you lost your soul in pride. You stole from me half-knowing ways, Too ashamed to ask or face the maze. You plucked the grain from my own stack— But placed no rope around its track.”

Eat less grain, don’t patch your flaws, Read 'Eat' in Qur’an—then 'waste not' its laws. If you eat too much, you’ll fall in trap— True knowledge and restraint will close that gap. The wise one eats, not fears the feast— But fools are left with shame, at least. When the rope of trap wraps tight around the throat, Then all grain is poison in that moat. Can a bird, trapped in a snare, Still enjoy the grain placed there? Grain becomes like deadly bane If eaten in a trap’s domain. Only heedless birds will peck that seed— Like the masses trapped in worldly greed. But the wise and watchful birds abstain, They tie themselves from such deadly grain. For inside every snare, the bait’s a knife— Blind’s the bird that seeks it for life. The trapper slaughters fools with ease, But spares the clever for their melodies. From the dull, he takes their meat— From the wise, sad songs and cries so sweet.

Then the maid peeked from behind the door, And saw the mistress dead beneath the donkey’s roar. She cried, “O foolish mistress! What is this? Did your master show you just the bliss? You saw the surface—sweet and neat— But missed the hidden trap beneath. You opened shop, though unprepared, And paid the price—your soul ensnared. You saw his shaft, like honey, fine— But missed the gourd that marked the line! Or perhaps, drunk on the donkey’s lust, That gourd escaped your gaze and trust. You saw the craft, and thought you knew— And called yourself a master too!”

So many frauds, without a clue, Who see a cloak, and call it true. So many clowns, from shallow art, Claim kingly grace, though worlds apart. Each one holding Moses’ staff, Blowing at fools, saying, “I'm Christ’s path.”

Ah! The day when truth will call— And test you with its stony wall. Why not ask the seasoned guide? The greedy walk as blind and wild. You ran with all, but lagged behind— These simple sheep are wolves’ best find. You heard the words, and mimicked sound, Like parrots, clueless yet spellbound.

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Now, let us use our own imagination and complete the work left unfinished by the talented author of From the Earth to the Moon. As you read this modest result of our effort — which is essentially an imitation of Verne — keep in mind that inside the spacecraft, there is no gravity and all objects are weightless.

Having Lunch in Zero Gravity

Michel Ardan said: “My friends, we still haven’t thought about lunch. It’s true that we’ve lost our weight, but I don’t think we’ve lost our appetite. So if you’ll allow me, I’ll now prepare a zero-gravity lunch for you — and surely it will be the lightest meal ever made.”

The Frenchman didn’t wait for a reply and got to work. As Ardan began unscrewing the cap of a large water bottle, he muttered to himself: “This bottle wants to pretend it’s empty, but it won’t fool me. I know why you feel so light. Alright, the bottle is open now. My God! Quick — pour your weightless contents into the pot!”

He tilted the bottle to one side, then the other — but no, the water wouldn’t come out. Nicholl, coming to his aid, said: “Dear Ardan, don’t trouble yourself. Don’t you know that in our spacecraft there’s no gravity, and water never pours out on its own? You have to shake it out — like when you’re trying to get thick syrup out of a bottle.”

Ardan tapped the bottom of the bottle with his hand; to his amazement, a ball of water, the size of a fist, emerged from the neck of the bottle. Astonished, he exclaimed: “Why did the water do that? I didn’t expect it at all! Please, my learned friends, tell me why this happened?”

Nicholl said: "Dear Ardan, it’s nothing — it’s just a drop of water. In a weightless world where gravity doesn’t exist, there’s no limit to the size of water droplets. It’s only gravity that makes liquids take the shape of their containers, flow, or pour out. But here, weightlessness reigns, and liquids are affected only by their own molecular forces. Naturally, they tend to form spheres — just like in the famous Plateau experiment, where oil turns into globules."

Michael quickly replied: “Plateau’s experiments can stay with him; I need to boil water and make soup. God knows no molecular force is going to stop me.”

He angrily started shaking the bottle, trying to pour the water into a pot that was floating in the air. But it seemed like everything was working against him. As soon as the large water droplets touched the pot, they spread out over it, climbed up the edges, and ran around to the back. In no time, both the front and back of the pot were covered with a thick layer of water. Under these conditions, boiling water was pointless.

Nicholl, calm and collected, turned to the now-frustrated Ardan and said: “It’s an enlightening experience that shows the remarkable power of adhesion. Don’t worry! This is a normal phenomenon — it has to do with the wetting of solid surfaces. The only difference is that now gravity isn’t interfering, so we can observe the full process of the phenomenon.”

“I’m very sorry that gravity isn’t interfering!” Ardan snapped. “Whether it’s related to wetting or something else, I want the water in the pot, not around it. Tell me — what kind of cook could possibly make soup under these conditions?!”

Barbicane joined the conversation with a soothing tone: “If that’s the only problem, it can be easily solved. You surely know that water can’t stick to surfaces coated with a thin layer of grease. So just grease the back of the pot — the water will stay inside.”

“Bravo! Now that is what I call a real scientific solution!”

Overjoyed, Ardan immediately began greasing the back of the pot after making that remark. Then he turned on the gas flame and tried to place the pot over it to boil the water — but once again, things turned against him. This time, the flame started to misbehave. It burned weakly for half a minute, then went out. Ardan was confused. He tried many times to keep the flame lit, but all his efforts were in vain. No — the flame simply refused to burn properly. In desperation, he turned to his friends and asked:

“Barbicane! Nicholl! Don’t the laws of physics — or the regulations of the gas company — offer some way to make this stubborn flame burn properly?”

Nicholl explained: “The way the flame behaves is perfectly consistent with the laws of physics. There’s nothing unusual or unexpected about it. But as for the gas company regulations — well, I suppose in a place without gravity, the company might as well shut down. As you know, the byproducts of combustion are carbon dioxide and water vapor — and neither of those supports burning. On Earth, these combustion products don’t stay near the flame. Because of their heat, they become lighter and rise, making room for fresh, cool air to flow in. But here, since there’s no gravity, the combustion products remain where they’re generated. They surround the flame and block fresh air from reaching it. That’s why the flame looks so pale — and why it quickly goes out. In fact, fire extinguishers use the same principle: they surround a flame with a non-combustible gas to suffoca—”

Ardan cut him off: “So you're saying that if the Earth and its gravity didn’t exist, there’d be no need for fire departments, and fires would just extinguish themselves? Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. Now, to make your soup, try lighting the flame one more time, and we’ll help you. Maybe we can create some artificial airflow to make the flame behave like it does on Earth.”

They got to work. Ardan lit the flame for what felt like the hundredth time and resumed cooking, while casting a mischievous glance at Nicholl and Barbicane, who took turns creating a draft to keep the flame alive.Deep down, he firmly believed that his friends — and their so-called science — were the true cause of all his troubles. Then, jokingly, he said:

“Ha ha ha! What wonderful chimneys you make! My dear scientific friends, I must say I feel sorry for you. But if you want a nice, hot lunch, you’ll have to bow to the laws of your own physics!”

A quarter of an hour passed; then half an hour; then a full hour — and still, there was no sign of the water in the pot boiling.

“Dear Ardan, be patient,” said Barbicane. “Under normal conditions, water boils quickly because it has weight. Why? Simply because its different layers mix together. The cooler, heavier upper layers sink down and push the warmer, lighter lower layers upward — which causes the water to heat up quickly. Have you ever tried heating water from the top and waiting for it to boil? If you’ve done that experiment, you know the layers don’t mix. The warm water layers stay still and motionless. As you know, water isn’t a good conductor of heat, and its thermal conductivity is practically negligible. You can bring the surface of the water in a container to a boil while having pieces of ice at the bottom.

But here, in zero gravity, it doesn’t matter which side you heat the water from — the layers don’t mix, so the water heats very slowly. If we want it to heat up faster, we’ll have to stir it constantly.”

Nicholl warned Ardan not to let the temperature of the water reach the boiling point but to keep it just below. He explained that at the boiling point, a large amount of steam is produced — and as he knew, in zero gravity, the specific weight of both water and steam is the same: zero. Therefore, they mix together and create foam.

As soon as Ardan opened the sealed can of peas, he was shocked — and furious. The moment he gave it a slight shake, the peas scattered in every direction through the air. They bounced off the walls and came flying back. A disaster was narrowly avoided. As Nicholl took a breath, a pea shot into his throat — and nearly choked him!

Fortunately, the danger passed. To avoid further catastrophe and rid themselves of these hazardous peas, the friends all grabbed nets and began “hunting.” Thank goodness Ardan had brought the nets — he had intended to use them “on the Moon to catch butterflies.”

Cooking under these conditions was truly a hazardous task. Ardan was right to say that even the most skilled chefs would be helpless in such a situation. He truly suffered while trying to prepare the beefsteak. He had to press the meat down into the oil with a fork, because the elastic behavior of the oil’s vapors kept pushing the half-cooked meat back up — that is, if we can even use the word "up" in a place where “up” and “down” have no real meaning.

In a weightless world, eating also presents a strange spectacle. The passengers, in various positions — some of them admittedly exaggerated on purpose — floated in the air and constantly bumped into one another. Naturally, “sitting” no longer had any meaning. Under such conditions, chairs, beds, and benches were entirely useless. In fact, Ardan’s insistence on setting up a proper "dining table" was quite unnecessary — there was no need for a table at all.

Cooking the soup was difficult — eating it even more so. Ardan couldn’t pour the weightless liquid into a plate by tilting the pot. Frustrated, and ignoring the effects of zero gravity, he tapped the bottom of the upside-down pot in an attempt to get the stubborn soup out. But with that move, he almost ruined all his efforts: a large drop, spherical in shape — which is to say, the entire soup — leapt out of the pot!Ardan was forced to perform a full act of juggling and acrobatics to get the food he had struggled so hard to prepare back into the pot.

Spoons were of no help either; the soup coated the entire bowl and handle of the spoon, clinging to it as a single sticky layer. The three friends greased their spoons with butter to prevent the soup from wetting and sticking to them — but then a new problem arose. The soup formed into small spheres, and they couldn’t manage to get the weightless liquid into their mouths.

At last, Nicholl had an idea: he rolled up some wax paper into tubes, and the crew began sucking the soup through these makeshift straws. From that point on, they even used this method to drink water.

You might be surprised and ask: in a weightless world, how can one drink anything even using such a method? Isn’t it true that the air inside the spacecraft has no weight — and therefore can’t exert pressure? In that case, how can one suck up a liquid?

But this criticism is misplaced. The truth is that the weightlessness of air in such conditions has no effect on its pressure. The air inside an enclosed space still has pressure — and this pressure isn’t due to weight, but because air, like all gases, always tends to expand. On our planet, in open spaces, the force of gravity prevents the air from expanding further .In fact, it is precisely this usual connection between weight and air pressure under Earth’s normal conditions that leads to such misunderstandings.

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A revelation came:

Why such a futile fear? Your child, our traveler, is now safely here. Tear away the veil of doubt from your eyes, And see—was it a loss or a gain, in disguise? What you cast away, we firmly caught, Did you not see God's hand? Yet you knew it not. In you, there's but a mother's love and care, But Our way is justice, and nurturing is fair. God’s deeds are no game, so don’t be misled, What we took from you, we can give back instead.

The river’s surface is his cradle now, The waves his nurse, and flood his mother somehow. The rivers do not surge of their own intent, They move as we command, to where they are sent. It is We who order the storm to rise, It is We who direct the flood’s fierce cries. Attribute not forgetfulness to the Divine, That is a heavy sin—don’t bear that line. Return to Us, entrust him once more, Could you love him more than We adore?

All of existence is drawn by Our hand, Earth, wind, and water obey Our command. Every drop that flows through any stream, Moves to fulfill a purpose in Our scheme. Many a lost soul have We led back home, Many the poor we've fed, left not alone. Who is poor is Our honored guest indeed, The stranger to all is Our kin in need. We call them near, though they may turn away, We cover their faults, though wrong they stray. Whatever Our needle sews, it holds tight, Whatever burns, has burned by Our fire’s light.

He tells the story:

A vessel struck by a dreadful, deadly wave, Was dragged toward the sea’s engulfing grave. A savage wind destroyed its fated course, And cast its people into dark remorse. The anchor held no strength, the rudder failed, The hands of sailors trembled, hope curtailed. Skill in captains was but a fleeting thing—One chance alone could saving mercy bring. The cords and threads of sail were torn apart, The waves burst in, from every open part. All wealth and lives were swallowed by the tide, But one small child, by fortune, did abide.

That poor young soul, like a bird, flapped in fear, And clung to the sea like a mother near. At first, the waves curled him like a scroll, Then the fierce winds threatened to take their toll.

I said to the sea: No more storm or spite, Don’t ruin this spark, this longing, this light. Among the poor, let none be cast aside, This child is not meant to drown in the tide. I said to the rocks: Make peace, do not harm. I said to the drops: Flow not toward alarm. I gave the wind a command full and clear: Lift up this infant, bring him to the near. To the stones I said: Grow soft ‘neath his form. To the snow I said: Turn into water warm. To the dawn I said: Smile upon his face. To the light: Bring joy, revive him with grace. To the tulip: Bloom gently near his bed. To the dew: Wash gently his little head. To the thorn: Do not tear his anklet chain. To the snake: Strike not, don’t cause him pain. To sorrow I said: His strength is not much. To the tear: Hold back—he’s a child and such. To the wolf: Do not tear his fragile skin. To the thief: Don’t steal the necklace from him. To fate I said: Make him ruler of the land. To wisdom: Lend him an understanding hand. I brought brightness to all shades and fears, And turned every terror into peace and cheers.

They found safety—yet turned insecure, I showed them love—they made me endure. They acted much, but all was base and vile, Made mirrors, yes—but out of mud and tile. When they found themselves not on the way, but lost, They dug deep pits for others, at great cost. They sought for light—but only through the smoke, Built up palaces—on rivers, which then broke. They told grand tales—without a root or ground, Hired thieves as guards to keep watch all around. They filled their cups with poison and decay, Spun threads of hatred on the spindle’s way. They studied much—but lessons born of shame, They rode their steeds—but bridled none to tame. They made the devils judges, guards, and peers—In what court? The court of the Living Seer! They bowed their heads to stone and dust alike—In what temple? The temple of God Most High! They guided others deep into astray, And packed their bags with burden and dismay. From the furnace of self-love and pride arose, The flames of deeds that no good heart bestows.

We had saved that helpless drowning one, But once from death he fled, to lust he’d run. At last, that radiant light turned into smoke, That guiltless orphan—became a Nimrod cloaked. He rose to battle Me, the Lord Most High, And sought for help from vultures in the sky. I raised him up with kindness, love, and grace— But grown, he turned more wicked than a beast’s face. The spark of pride lit countless fires ablaze, And from its flame, were homes consumed in haze. He dared to boast divine authority, And tried to breach God's own sanctity. He thought with twisted mind and darkened will, He rose in pride—so we cast him still.

I gave command to a mere gnat, so small, To strike his eye, and bring his pride to fall. That self-conceit was blown from out his brain, Let him call no darkness a lamp again. If We raise up even foes with tender hand, Could We forget our friends, or fail to stand?

If such mercy we show to one like Nimrod, Would We ever be unjust to Moses of God This, ThePrior, is no speech of vain desire, Wherever light appears—it comes from God's fire.

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