one hundred and twenty four thousand prophets
until your heart became a slate for surah after holy surah
the faithful recite five times a day even today.
how young you must have been, how alone,
was there anyone who understood the pain
Gibreel’s quill inflicted upon your heart?
was there anyone who could wipe away the blood?
was there blood spilt upon the sands?
your heart must’ve been so big, to include it all,
a reflection of everything He is.
i have picked up a little book of the verses
abridged appropriately for weekend seekers
maybe one lifetime won’t be enough
to align my desires to His plans
how did you surrender when i find it tough even to bow
i begin to wonder , was i born for this?
until your heart became a slate for surah after holy surah
the faithful recite five times a day even today.
how young you must have been, how alone,
was there anyone who understood the pain
Gibreel’s quill inflicted upon your heart?
was there anyone who could wipe away the blood?
was there blood spilt upon the sands?
your heart must’ve been so big, to include it all,
a reflection of everything He is.
i have picked up a little book of the verses
abridged appropriately for weekend seekers
maybe one lifetime won’t be enough
to align my desires to His plans
how did you surrender when i find it tough even to bow
i begin to wonder , was i born for this?
2 comments:
That is a lovely poem.
I liked the 'weekend seekers' bit.
And the difficulty to bow.
But did you know that Vivekananda said that to remember the Lord is to serve him?
wonderfully humble
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