Eyes shut, body still, mind calm, lights kill.

Deceleration of breath whilst proliferation of death

Rolling down the subconscious iceberg until

Gears and cogs and clock hands turn and I forget—

Stage one. You have arrived at the alpha.

Here what you hear is distorted in your ears

Mind is still well and alive but the site of an alfalfa

Is blind to the visible eye while it is near

Stage two. You have arrived at the theta.

Strange as it seems the fine line between reality and dreams

Are two in one, blended by the mind that runs data

Of past recollections into images in sections as it teems.

Stage three. You have arrived at the delta.

Processes have slowed, memories are stowed away to the subconscious bay

Whilst you enter a land stranded with sand without any shelter

And night is incumbent to veil the reasons of day.

Stage four. You have arrived at the gamma.

This is the part where everything changes.

Suddenly life emerges like a lightning striking the Panama

Canal of your ear and what you hope and fear ranges

Unlimitedly across the lands of imagination

Unknown and grown and stowed away in a strange place

Where whatever happens may precognize like inebriation

Or fantasize to realize what in wakefulness you vainly chase

Across the sky you fly in the sea you breathe

At the speed of sound on the ground and the world around

Fame and fortune and frolic, of fear your freed

Faeries and sprights and aeriform delights surround

Remnant memory in the form of reverie

Entering as thoughts manifest into reality’s reflection

Everyday nuances risen into the realm of the heavenly

Fettering like dots best described by science as brightened brain sections

Speaking of heavenly, let’s speak about that

Seeing that we’ve reached that fact as a matter of fact

And from twenty-seven to seventy thousand good deeds rack

Written with the pen of time on the fabric of fate in ink that is black

Of cosmic connectivity with such spiritual lucidity

From the black hole of the mind out of the soul synaptic ravine

Bridging the gap between the heavenly and the known reality

Despite what the heart desires to which it inclines

Here, a plane beyond this Earth is visualized

Fear is just a construct of illusiveness

Tears are irrelevant in a place you’ll never face ill-speech or lies

Peer into the telescope of the ethereal condusiveness

That which is divine is given as signs from above

Beyond wordly love higher than the flight of a dove

Somewhere near, somewhere close, somewhere you’ll never get enough

Because you’ll be fulfilled with ambrosian stuff

A home of messengers, martyrs, men alike

Who believed, perceived, and conceived the truth like the eye of the night

Never giving up hope or abandoning the fight

In dreams of an eternity that more than suffices their plight

Until you reach the high plane

Where the veil is lifted

Nothing is conceivable to the physical brain

And light upon light, upon you is gifted!!

Pleased with you, and you pleased with Him

This is the ultimate attainment!

Cups and chalices of silver filled to the brim

Of all your desires there is no containment!!!

Ethereal, surreal, this is a dream yet for real

You wish to reach such heights, you think and you feel

And the One you wish to impress knows what you conceal

So you do not digress, and before Him you kneel

Forty years you see what you once believed

In awe, in fear, in enlightenment, in exaltation

Compact into seconds, you have perceived

The recitation of an invocation for nations is now realization

Elated, pupils dilated and deeds are weighted

And if a feather is heavier it is stated

That you will reside and abide in a bode verily hated

By all like, so then why did you abate it?

Flames that purge, flames that scourge

A spark as large as a sallow fortress

Blame is dispersed, the blame is all yours

Why did you not stop when you had time to forfeit?

Screams, despair, dreams are now nightmares

Demons don’t care how painful it is there

Water is not shared, scalding it tears

Through the insides, so I declare, why aren’t you scared!?!?

In between there and a place you wish to go

You teeter between fear and hope of Him

What you deem fair is faced with the throes

Of reality’s truth and not to your judgment or whims

Memories of old, premonitions of new

Fantasies so bold, renditions of the true

Wishes so fantastic, goals you slew

Dreams bombastic, extolled by you

Pulse of the universe beats to the rhythm of nature

Convulse in synchronicity, slowing in tempo

Until the BPM of heart reverts to start place or

The mind sublimes to the rhyme it’s scribed in decrescendo

Shift down, shut down, lift up, hear sound

Gears slow, mind softens, time is rewound

Stage four, stage three, stage two, stage one rebound

Timelessness is bound yet again with the now you found

Rising up from an unconscious sea of still

Acceleration of breath clock hand turn and I forget

As cogs and gears calm the mind, the mind’s lights kill

Eyes open, body fills with life renascent from the iteration of death.

In the darkest hour, your light arose.

When souls were lost, wandering aimlessly,

seeking that which they did not know,

Out came a Prophet, from Allah and Allah alone.

When truth was forgotten, mixed in with illusions,

In the depths of darkness, hearts hard and frozen

A honorable man from Quraysh was surely chosen.

Beauty and radiance brighter than the full moon,

Your character was that of the noble Quran,

Walking with a sense of purpose, ever reflecting

Your heart was purer than gold, most loved by Ar-Rahman ((the Merciful Lord))

Hair, neither curly nor straight, as black as they come

Medium in stature, neither tall nor short

Full of life and light, yours was an appearance that was compelling

To those blessed to set their gaze upon you

And to those yearning for a glimpse in their dreams.

They say your smile lit any space you entered,

Forcing eyes to be downcast because of its brilliance.

How much would we give, to see your smile!

A radiant smile that can only come from a radiant soul,

Kindness and mercy were part of your demeanor

Beloved of Allah, you dealt with people in an exalted manner,

Exemplifying the essence of piety

Always teaching, forever loving

Not a soul came to you, but was enriched and cherished

Never having left your side feeling unwanted.

Challenges came to you, as with your brothers, the prophets of before

with a smile you bore it with strength, your heart turned to the Source of Peace

From Mecca to Taif, an outcast did they make you

Hurtful words surrounded you, family abandoned you with no shame

Allah was your pillar; on Him was your unwavering trust

Pelted with stones, feet bleeding from your escape

Mourning the loss of your beloved Khadija, a woman like no other

Surely did an angel come to put power in your hand

Let the mountain collapse on those who transgressed against you!

Those persecuting you and your companions,

Killing and torturing them ruthlessly, for following His way.

The weight of belief in your hearts

Was too mighty of a power for them to contend

But surely you did not take your right, Rahmatan lil ‘Alamin ((Mercy of the Worlds))

Mercy and compassion did you choose, to guide to His Light

A honorable man indeeed, chosen by the Most High

Carrying the weight of a mighty task

Hearts and souls united, on a straightened path

You taught us love and submission, obedience to Allah Almighty

Praying till feet were swollen, ever mindful of your blessings

As the love of al Wadud ((the Affectionate Lord)) coursed through your veins,

Shall I not be ‘abdan shakura ((grateful servant)) you would humbly state.

Crying for the nation entrusted to you

My ummah! My ummah!, ((my community)) your tears and duas ((prayers)) reached the heavens

Surrounded by beloved companions, stars for us to follow

You would yearn to meet your brothers of generations to come

Those who believed in you, without seeing you

Who took your message and spread it just the same

Believers who love you, and stand for your honor till this very day

Values of piety did you teach mankind

To protect the orphans and guard their rights

Honor your neighbors and stand firmly for justice

Let no man cause enmity between you, you advised

Lower your wing of humility to the womb that bore you

For verily, Paradise is under her feet

Love your father and guard your tongues

Let no man pass you without giving a smile

For even a smile is considered an act of charity

Share your food, give of your wealth and pray tahajjud

Be neither extravagant nor miserly in your ways

A balanced and humble path is what you sought

Connecting softened hearts, brotherhood was what you taught

Preferring others over your nafs was surely your way

No man is better than another, except in piety you would exclaim

For Allah scans our heart, not the color of our skins

Spread the salaam ((peace, words of greeting)) and give women their rights

Strive for Jannah ((Paradise)) , be sincere indeed

And know that to Allah is your final return

Never could you imagine, the magnitude of our love

For the man whose love saved us from ourselves.

You are a gift from the King and you we emulate

Mighty was your reach, for it was hearts and minds you conquered

You were destined for greatness, though you were but a man

And to Allah you returned, at rest at last

Free from the turmoils and hardships you endured

The darkness has been lifted, the hearts warmed

For the path to Him has been illuminated

You completed your mission, on us is the burden now

We bear witness to your message, delivered in excellence

The Sahaba ((Companions)) wept for the Prophet who lived amongst them

We weep for the Beloved we never met

We weep for the Seal of Prophets, Muhammad ibn Abdullah

To be loved by a man whose loved by Ar Rahman,

Our eyes overflow with tears, our chest expands

Wait for us ya Rasullah, ((O Messenger of God)) wait for us Habibuna ya Khalil-ul-Allah ((Our Beloved, O Friend of God))

Salalahu ‘ala nabiyana Muhammad ((Blessings of God on our messenger Mohammad))

SALALAHU ‘ALAHI WA SALAM ((Blessings of God and Peace))

Salalahu ‘ala nabiyana Muhammad

SALALAHU ‘ALAHI WA SALAM

By Dua Aldasouqi

Have you ever
had your heart broken,
chest opened
reached in
pulled out
squeezed
until you bleed?

Have you ever
cried for a lost one?
Mother, brother, daughter, son,
tummy in a knot
and all you want to do is run?

Have you ever
struggled with the news?
Murder, massacre,
guns and demolition crews.
It’s like a game,
which tragedy do you choose?
Which tyrant
do you root for to lose?
Can you just turn off
or at least snooze?
Because you just.can’t.even.

So you, turn to a friend:
mentor, teacher, or anyone else
Because you feel absolutely hopeless

You ask them: What should I do?
And they say, make du’a’ ((supplication)) , you know pray
So you’re like, yeah yeah
But, no, what should I do or say?
You brush it off your shoulder cuff
Like du’a’ just, isn’t enough

You move on, not
recognizing what you’ve done
That you’ve left behind
The truly capable One

You forget – that Yahya ((`alayhi as-salaam—peace be upon him))
was the answer
to his father’s
constant prayer

You forget – that Yunes ((`alayhi as-salaam))
chose prayer
Over despair
inside the whale

You forget – that Ayoub’s ((`alayhi as-salaam))
affliction
was removed
through du`a’

You forget – that Badr
was nothing short of
intervention
from the heavens

You forget—that power
lies with Him alone
That strength comes
through His will

That He is the
Sustainer, the Maintainer,
the Provider, the Protector,
the Just, the Judge

You forget – that He is
the only capable One

Photo: Jason Mrachina

By Zaheen Uddin

Sitting here, waiting, waiting for epiphany to strike.

Thinking in reflection, sinking in perplexion

Mind winds up, thoughts line up, time winds down understanding hikes

Sensation is in elation, reverberation in air particles’ perception

Suddenly everything is in slow motion.

Because logic, reasoning and problem-solving ability

Are clearer than a summer sky that knows no notion

Of a straggling cloud in the celestial sea of tranquility

Abstract materializes, realizes the vices

Of the hidden within that were veiled before

Synesthesia of the mind makes sounds dance in colorful silence

Violet vox, turquoise trills, lavender lore

Black and white are dark as the day, bright as the night

When shadows are cast behind and the eye of the night outshines the rest

And dark distinguishes danger from delight

With an inner eye that foresees beyond light of the West

Because the evanescent sun extracts the last tracks of day

In between gone and here it is a phantasmagoric sphere

Giving a clear criterion of what is on land and what remains at bay

Beyond which an unconscious ocean is near, so clear

Pristine it appears, but here, not a ray of light shines down

Complex in its contents, deep in darkness

Creatures deep within it are fatefully bound

By the confines of the abysmal harness

Deeper and deeper I plunge within

Pressure strengthens as complex composition concentrates

Steeper and steeper I delve into sin

Wetter, better yet more fettered as it palpitates

Blind now, deaf of sound and unable to comprehend

Light seems impossible in a place where hope dies

Empty, yet so heavy, there seems to be no end

To the evil, the deception, the ineptness, the lies

I crawl myself out with no known avail

It’s too damp and too dark to try

If only I had never set out to subconsciously sail!

At this point it’s so damp I can’t even cry

Too much thinking, too deep, abstract

The window of opportunity is long past gone

I’m lost, I lost black, I’m trapped

The perceptive lights that were once bright are no longer on.

I close my eyes to my impending doom.

I give up, forfeit, let the tides take me

Out of the ocean, out of the sky I zoom

Into the singularity of my soul, and it breaks me.

Silence, solitude, severance and sadness

Nothing, null, nada, naked

I’m left alone in the centroid of madness

Rotten, forgotten, hated, forsaken.

“Awaken,”  I hear a voiceless voice say

Within me, around me, surrounds me, intimately

Eyes flash open, body is frozen; I lay

On the bay. I once was in close proximity, infinitely

Ecstatic, erratic, emphatic tears wet my face

Once drier than the most monochromatic and mundane

Who brought me here, where was that place?

And how did I get back to the higher plane?

I knew the answer, yet I didn’t.

Closer to me than my jugular vein,

I felt my pulse, it beat to the rhythm

Of the universe’s call inside the walls of my brain.

Within me, about me, without me, intricately

Designing and planning a masterful plan

Refining and aligning, as I am so insolently

Denying, lying, and crying towards my hands

“Truth was made clear and falsification has left,”

Said once a noble amongst mankind

And the same I say after once being bereft

Of the blessing that was graced by the divine.

That man, that mercy, that messenger, that martyr,

Was a part of my heart, from end, from start

I remember his message, from a life that was harder

Than the toils upon which any one of us embark.

His message was this:  “Whatever is willed is never to miss

And whatever misses you was never to hit.”

And “Glad tidings to the righteous of perpetual bliss”,

And “Whatever wrong is against your soul, and good is merit.”

I remember this, and the ember’s hiss also known as desire

Dies down until the illumination of what surrounds

Stops flashing about and what was once furious fire

Is now doused by the waters to douse what’s aroused

Arise from the mist, determined, clenched fist

I realize my purpose in earnest and my wish

And the voice that was voiceless yet I so dearly missed…

Was one I always knew, true as the sea’s blue; I know this.

It wasn’t far, it was always near.

I just couldn’t hear, with my fingers in my ears

So close, so great, so compassionate, so dear

In my darkest moments, do You truly appear.

And so I want to remember You

Wherever I am, if I’m planning a plan You are planning too

With love unmatched I cry tears true

Because of fear, love, trust and weakness of man

You are the Friend I never knew

But always there, for eternity

No matter how dark it is, I can still see You

God, my God, you are always sought internally

Today though… everywhere…

will I look for You.

Note: The post was written a few months before traveling for Umrah. Alhamdulillah, having now completed the journey, I cannot emphasize enough how important preparation is to the journey. To remove oneself from the dunya (worldy life)and prepare for what lies ahead is essential. What will you say to your Lord and His messenger ﷺ (peace be upon him) when you visit them in the blessed cities?

My eyes have not seen anyone more magnificent than you

No woman has borne such perfection

You were created free from all deficiencies

It is as though you were created as you wished

[Hassaan ibn Thaabit]

.

From jaahily (pre-Islam period in Mecca) poetry to country odes, nursery rhymes to modern day rap, poetry has long possessed a mystical hold over society. Sitting at the height of literary excellence, its subtle words and rhythmic beats engage the deepest emotions of the reader, moving them to live the words recited.

.

“Logic and grammar are important. But for students to truly own the English language, they need to read and write poems.”

[Dorothea Lasky]

.

Islam has a rich tradition of poetry, and no topic has drawn more attention than the love of the Prophet ﷺ. For centuries, scholars and lovers have written words dedicated to their beloved Messenger ﷺ. Poems such as Hasaan ibn Thabit’s verses (above) and the Burda (The Adoned Mantle) sit eternally in the hearts of Muslims as epitomes of love for the Messenger ﷺ.

.

I do not claim to be a poet. When compared to these greats, my words are meaningless. However, my intention to go on ‘umrah next month has inspired me to follow in their footsteps, dedicating a few words to read them to my beloved Prophet ﷺ at his tomb. Perhaps Allah will place blessing in these words and grant me the honour of a true vision of the Prophet ﷺ and his companions. Ameen.

The poem reflects the life (seerah) of the Prophet ﷺ and how it bears on our own. Many of us claim that if we were with him ﷺ, we would have been of the foremost to protect him. We say we love him ﷺ yet few of us have seen him or know what he looks like. So often the Prophet ﷺ and Islam are slandered and we do nothing to educate people about him. We profess that we would seek his ﷺ company had we been contemporaries, yet we live in ignorance of our faith and ignore its inheritors ((Abu al-Darda’ (Allah be pleased with him) that the Messenger of Allah (Allah bless him and give him peace) said:

“Scholars are the inheritors of the prophets.”

[Related by Tirmidhi, Abu Dawud, Nasa’i, Ibn Maja, Ahmad, Ibn Hibban, and others]

)) . We wish we were in his company yet we forego the gardens of paradise ((Ibn `Umar reported that the Prophet ﷺ said:

“When you pass by the gardens of Paradise, avail yourselves of them.” The Companions asked: “What are the gardens of Paradise, O Messenger of Allah?” He replied: “The circles of dhikr (remembrance of Allah). There are roaming angels of Allah who go about looking for the circles of dhikr, and when they find them they surround them closely.”

[Tirmidhi narrated it (hasan gharib) and Ahmad]

)) . As the companions (sahabah) famously said to the followers (tab`ieen – the generation which followed the companions):

“If we saw you at the time of the Prophet ﷺ, we would think you were hypocrites, and if you saw us at the time of the Prophet ﷺ, you would think we were mad men!” ((I heard this tradition orally and have sought to establish its source, although this statement is strengthened by the famous saying of the Prophet ﷺ in Bukhari “The best of generations is my generation, then those that follow them, then those that follow them.” I sight this phrase as a point of self-reflection, not to derive any ruling from it

One saying ascribed to Al-Hasan Al-Basri is:

 حَدَّثَنِي أَبِي ، قَالَ : ثنا إِبْرَاهِيمُ بْنُ مُحَمَّدِ بْنِ الْحَسَنِ ، قَالَ : ثنا أَبُو حُمَيْدٍ أَحْمَدُ بْنُ مُحَمَّدٍ الْحِمْصِيُّ ، قَالَ : ثنا يَحْيَى بْنُ سَعِيدٍ ، قَالَ : ثنا يَزِيدُ بْنُ عَطَاءٍ ، عَنْ عَلْقَمَةَ بْنِ مَرْثَدٍ ، قَالَ :

 ” انْتَهَى الزُّهْدُ إِلَى ثَمَانِيَةٍ مِنَ التَّابِعِينَ ، فَمِنْهُمُ الْحَسَنُ بْنُ أَبِي الْحَسَنِ ، فَمَا رَأَيْنَا أَحَدًا مِنَ النَّاسِ كَانَ أَطْوَلَ حَزَنًا مِنْهُ ، مَا كُنَّا نَرَاهُ إِلا أَنَّهُ حَدِيثُ عَهْدٍ بِمُصِيبَةٍ ، ثُمَّ قَالَ :

 ” نَضْحَكُ وَلا نَدْرِي ، لَعَلَّ اللَّهَ قَدِ اطَّلَعَ عَلَى بَعْضِ أَعْمَالِنَا ، فَقَالَ : لا أَقْبَلُ مِنْكُمْ شَيْئًا ، وَيْحَكَ يَا ابْنَ آدَمَ ، هَلْ لَكَ بِمُحَارَبَةِ اللَّهِ طَاقَةٌ ؟ إِنَّهُ مَنْ عَصَى اللَّهَ فَقَدْ حَارَبَهُ ، وَاللَّهِ لَقَدْ أَدْرَكْتُ سَبْعِينَ بَدْرِيًّا أَكْثَرُ لِبَاسِهِمُ الصُّوفُ ، وَلَوْ رَأَيْتُمُوهُمْ قُلْتُمْ : مَجَانِينُ ، وَلَوْ رَأَوْا خِيَارَكُمْ لَقَالُوا : مَا لِهَؤُلاءِ مِنْ خَلاقٍ ، وَلَوْ رَأَوْا شِرَارَكُمْ لَقَالُوا : مَا يُؤْمِنُ هَؤُلاءِ بِيَوْمِ الْحِسَابِ ، وَلَقَدْ رَأَيْتُ أَقْوَامًا كَانَتِ الدُّنْيَا أَهْوَنَ عَلَى أَحَدِهِمْ مِنَ التُّرَابِ تَحْتَ قَدَمَيْهِ ، وَلَقَدْ رَأَيْتُ أَقْوَامًا يَمْشِي أَحَدُهُمْ وَمَا يَجِدُ عِنْدَهُ إِلا قُوتًا ، فَيَقُولُ : لا أَجْعَلُ هَذَا كُلَّهُ فِي بَطْنِي ، لأَجْعَلَنَّ بَعْضَهُ لِلَّهِ عَزَّ وَجَلَّ فَيتَصَدَّقُ بِبَعْضِهِ ، وَإِنْ كَانَ هُوَ أَحْوَجَ مِمَّنْ يَتَصَدَّقُ بِهِ عَلَيْهِ

(حديث مقطوع)

[taken from http://www.islamweb.net/hadith/display_hbook.php?bk_no=628&pid=138420&hid=1838]

))

So how then does this bear on us who are so far astray from the path to Allah!

The words I write are a reflection on my own soul, my own hypocrisy and double standards. I claim to yearn for him ﷺ yet my actions speak differently. How do I greet the greatest human to walk this earth whilst I know what state my soul is in? Perhaps through these words Allah will grant me forgiveness, guidance, and sincerity to change the man I’m becoming to the man I wish to become.

—————————————–

What If

What if I met the Prophet ((The ﷺ is omitted to keep the poetic flow)) ,

And walked the path he walked.

I would be his shadow, follow every step,

And never let him go.

.

What if I heard the Prophet,

Speaking to friend and foe.

I would write and learn his every word,

And spread them across the globe.

.

What if I spoke to the Prophet,

And shared with him my thoughts.

I would live by every word he said,

Applying them one by one.

.

What if I stood with the Prophet,

Fighting against his foes.

I would protect him against every (s)word and (ar)row,

Of the tongue and of the bow.

.

What if I saw the Prophet,

Embracing me with his smile,

I would feel its glow shining through my life,

And forever be my guide.

.

So why now do I leave you, oh Prophet,

When true dreams remain for those who love.

If truly I ever loved you so,

The heart will find what it seeks.

.

While the sayings of yours, oh Prophet,

Like gems amongst the words,

Remain to guide us along the path,

Mina al-dhulumaati ila al-noor. ((from darknesses into the light; 33:43, 57:9, 65:11))

.

And your legacy remains, oh Prophet,

With the scholars left on earth.

Inheritors of prophetic wisdom,

Preside to lead us forward.

.

We abandoned you for profit,

Chasing what the world can give,

Forgetting that joy is found with you,

In God’s everlasting bliss.

.

Now I return to you, oh Prophet,

In this blessed city of light,

To pledge a change forever more,

And turn my face to God.

.

Peace and blessings to you, oh Prophet,

For time and ever more.

To you we owe the greatest debt,

For all that you have brought.

..

And your family and friends, oh Prophet,

Who showed us how to live,

They sought your love in all they did

To earn the love of God

.

by Askia Nasir Bilal

Its Words are ten stone slabs in the bosom piece

Air

mountain pegs holding my celestial body in place

coral reef, beached whale bones

bleached pale

poems can’t touch the place its page reached
“Read!”

was the Word that squeezed free his rib cage

The seed rooted and breathed branches across ages

planted an oasis in the desert-chested

took its seat in the minds of peasants to sages

who halt and fall at all corners of earth

their foreheads transformed to lanterns

Its Words are not the spells of a soothsayer

not a madman poet who sought profit

they are Lanterns from on High

cast into our clay frames where they hang shimmering

meteors passing through our frozen membranes

floodlights to consciousness

Its Majestic Speech

would make skies weep and bow

a lightning bolt to the boulder-breasted
God Willing

to those who ingest its message

it gives their spines polished posture

God Willing

those whose heart-tongues host its words

their clay forms are molded into noble vessels

God Willing

It draws the mirage out of mankind

strikes the living dead and mends severed body-hearts

Its Letters — ladders leading to higher selves

God Willing

“Read!” was the Word that made his rib cage its throne

Nor was he known as a liar

A Warning-harbinger, Glad tidings

Its passages lead passengers to meaning

It vibrates through our barren vessels until

we are shattered whole

“Taught man what he knew not”

like stones thrown at our glasshouse false selves

showing an Opening to True Purpose.

By Muhammad Daniel

I was born from an act of idealism
To a world where ideals are sold

I looked for the way to be muslim
Got confused with what I was told

Each group claimed to be on the right path
Citing strong evidences to prove

But my heart found no peace with this conflict
So restless I started to move

From this one to that one I staggered
Nowhere did I seem to fit in

But in fear of the fire I kept searching
Wondering at the state we are in

Soon I grew tired of meetings
Of conferences, speeches and shows

I longed for some friends to be close to
As we lined up to pray in the rows

But the rows said salaam and dispersed
To the cultural lives whence they came

I went home to no group to be part of
Past the pubs looking warm in the rain

But Allah is my refuge my solace
He alone do I turn to to ask

That the muslims get out of their ghettos
To unite on their God-given task

And take in the wandering converts
For God surely will reward those

Who share the diamonds they’re hiding
In the peace of their family homes

Calling for Submissions
“Expressions of the African American Muslim Experience”

Acceptable submissions include:
– Photography;
– Digital Art;
– Poetry;
– Prose;
– or similar creative submission.

We hope to share different perspectives from our community in order to inspire and motivate each other, and to encourage creative insight and reflection on who we are, where we are going, and where we are coming from.

We request that submissions adhere to basic Islamic guidelines, such as avoiding explicit language or aesthetics. All submissions are subject to review and will be selected by VirtualMosque.com staff.

Editor’s Note: This short story has been brought back for your enjoyment as it is one of the editorial staff’s favorite short stories.

By Ayesha Nasir

This is a fictional story which revolves around Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ozymandias” poem.

“Hey, Perce? Care to pass me that newspaper?” Bill asked, his eyes glued to the plethora of essays he was reading, yet very much aware of his surroundings.

Percy Bysshe Shelley looked up from his bowl of chopped carrots and soup. His eyes skimmed across the polished marble table.

“Of course,” he replied, reaching out for the freshly-printed wad of huge, white sheets. Some of the black ink smeared onto his fingers as he deliberated which movement of his arm would cause the newspaper to land directly in Bill’s lap.

Bill wasn’t amused. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Hang on a moment,” Percy muttered. He had spotted something on the front page; something that made his hands tremble and his heart skip a beat.

“What is it?” Bill asked, showing some signs of curiosity.

“This,” replied Percy, pointing at the newspaper and grinning like a man who had just unearthed the world’s greatest treasure. He flung the newspaper onto the marble-topped counter, allowing Bill to read the headlines which claimed:

EGYPTIAN STATUE RECOVERED FROM RUINS

Percy was somewhere far away.

“The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed”

*

In the afterglow of a now vanished sun, a figure quietly stood up from her crouching position by the River Nile. She was draped in a dark cloak which almost caused her to dissolve into the landscape. In her hands she carried a bundle, carefully wrapped, close to her chest. You could tell by her contorted face and fitful gasps that there was a struggle going on between her heart and soul.

Just like the mother of Prophet Musa (peace be upon him), she turned to the sun that dipped into the western horizon and murmured a prayer to her Lord.

“Keep this child alive,” she gasped, unable to ask for anything more.

Gently unclasping the bundle, she placed it near the riverbank. When morning arrived she knew someone was bound to find her son. She hoped, dearly, that the ruling Pharaoh would never know of his existence, would never lay a finger on him.

*

Percy struggled at first. What he had heard of the ruins was enough to excite him but he could not explain? the strange attraction he felt towards Egypt.

“You’re not even an Arab, for heaven’s sake,” he scolded himself. He had read columns written from the Eastern world where people had begun claiming that the statue was of “the mightiest and most cruel” Egyptian ruler; someone rather familiar to the Pharaoh who prosecuted Moses.

A “kafir”, they called him.

Percy hesitated then scribbled down the information that was pouring in from all corners of the world.

“Disbeliever,” he translated.

*

The mother was right. Only a quarter hour into daybreak and the baby was taken in by the Royal Guards. These were men who reported directly to the Pharaoh. They were everywhere and they knew everything.

At first they thought the bundle to be forgotten clothes left behind by a bedouin. Only upon opening it did they realize tthat hey had stumbled upon human flesh–very much alive and hungry.

The Royal Guards were perplexed. Never had they been trained for anything like this. In their confusion, they carried the baby to the Pharaoh.

As fate would have it, the Pharaoh had recently lost all his sons to a war he had waged with a tribe far from home. He had won the battle but lost his sons.

Seeing the baby boy was a balm to all his worries for the fate of the empire. In a rare display of kindness, as selfish as it might be, he openly declared himself to be the father of the boy. His most recent wife, Sarone, gasped in shock yet she was forced to come to terms with this twist of fate.

The child was treated like a prince, for almost all believed him to be one. The Pharaoh noted with satisfaction all the telltale signs of royalty in the child: arrogance, disrespect for people lower than him in the social hierarchy, extravagance, and the almost obsessive inclination towards power.

“He will be the perfect ruler,” he murmured to his wife as they stod on the highest sand dune, watching the boy gallop on a velvety horse and disappear into the shadows of a sunlit horizon.

*

“Two legs of stone,” grumbled Percy.

“I beg your pardon?” exclaimed the elegantly dressed woman on his right. Her eyes darted to her legs which were primly and daintily clad in the best linen imported only recently from India.

“My apologies, that wasn’t meant for you,” said Percy, suddenly becoming conscious of his surroundings. He noticed the splendidly dressed people twirling around him, the haunting music, the blinding lights and the food. He took in the woman standing by him. Her cheeks were full, rosy, and carefully dabbed with a dash of rogue; there was a glimmer in her left eye, a mole near her perfectly shaped nose.

To his surprise the face turned into another face that had been haunting him, day in and day out. There was that look, the look of knowing you have everything you ever wanted, everything… perhaps even immortality.

“Half sunk, a shattered visage lies”

*

Ozymandias.

His name sounded so good, so royal, and so… expensive, even to his own ears. He chortled under the silk covers.

Wait. Who was it that dared speak his name in so careless a fashion? Who was it that slurred on the exquisite syllables, making them sound so ordinary? He jerked off the covers.

There before him stood his father. Ozymandias blinked. This can’t be. The man has been dead for months. Mummified since what, seven days?

“Ozymandias,” the Pharaoh said.

A ghost. It’s a ghost. A hallucination for all I know. It must be the drink I had brought in all the way from the nectarines near the Mongolian orchards. Never again, Ozymandias reminded himself. His father broke into his thoughts.

“You do realize that you now control every inch of what was my empire? The people bow to you, they accept you as their ruler,” said the old man, his voice thinning.

“Yes. I am the supreme ruler,” said Ozymandias, his voice ringing with absolute conviction.

The ghost’s eyes appeared to dim. What is that? Tears? Disgusting. Pathetic, really.

“You also realize that your time here is limited. Just like it has been for those before you, just like it will be it will be for those after you,” he said. The old man’s ghost looked so human that for a moment Ozymandias feared he had returned in flesh.

“Get to the point, old man! You take too much of my time and you know better than anyone that it is suicidal for a man to displease the Pharaoh,” said the young ruler mockingly.

“If I remember correctly, it was I who safeguarded you at a time when you were vulnerable. Had it not been for my kindness you would have been thrown into the Nile!” said the ghost.

“You needed me. The sons you had were killed in the battle. It was I who safeguarded your interests, your positions in the line of bloody men all too glad to become the ruler,” reprimands Ozymandias, getting up to pull back the silk curtains from the windows of his palace apartment. “See my kingdom. See what I have become,” he said to the ghost who shimmered in the sunlight.

“You do not understand…” began the old Pharaoh, defeat and fatigue evident in every syllable.

“I understand everything,” retorted Ozymandias his face bearing a vehement expression. “Who are you to question my place in the world? It is my world now. Not yours. You are dead.” His screams filled the air at dawn, screeching sounds of sheer hatred.

The ghost’s face softened. For a minute Ozymandias was struck by the simple realization that he had never seen his father, let alone a ghost of him, cry before. The shimmering figure opened its mouth to speak but as the Egyptian sun’s glare sharpened, it disappeared into nothingness.

“You are dead,” repeated Ozymandias, his face crumbling not from grief, but rather from anger. “Dead to the world.”

*

Egypt’s winters knew great cold. The cold was not present in the form of snow; rather it was emitted from within the palace walls which were made of baked bricks and clay of the best kind.

“I want my face all over the tributaries of Nile. How hard is that for you to carry out?” yelled Ozymandias at the four men in front of him. Three of them whimpered in fear and bowed submissively; they were new to this business and all they want was some fresh bread to take home.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” spoke the fourth one. “I am ready to give you my services.”

“I shall have you crucified if you do otherwise,” lashed out Ozymandias, coolly gazing at them.

Still the fourth sculptor stood his ground and met the Pharaoh’s gaze.

“As you desire, my lord,” he declared before exiting the palace grounds. He had a long month ahead of him in which he would find Ozymandias to be the sole occupant of his thoughts.

“I’ll be damned if I am unable to make this work,” he said to himself, realizing how much truth his words held.

*

Percy was feeling claustrophobic. He had been feeding himself with countless Egyptian tales, myths and beliefs. The mummification was what bothered him most.

“Imagine yourself being eaten by hundreds of hideous beetles and bitten by countless scorpions, Mary!” he exclaimed to his wife.

Mary shuddered, almost dropping her porcelain cutlery at the thought. For the hundredth time that day, she wished those lost ruins had never been found.

*

“It is ready, my lord,” said the sculptor with a fanatic gleam in his eyes. He looked positively crazy.

“About time,” replied Ozymandias approvingly looking over his shoulder. His voice was like silk, polished over years of a posh upbringing. Few would believe that in reality he had been brought to the castle as a weak, sallow orphan with huge circles under his eyes and stones tied to his stomach to keep away the hunger pangs. Even Ozymandias himself had long since discarded this secret, dismissing it as baseless.

“I wish to see it,” he spoke after an elongated pause.

“Now my lord?” said the sculptor, feigning surprise. He had expected this.

“Yes, now. No matter if it is turning dark. We shall take the steeds. The quicker we reach there, the better,” replied the Pharaoh, a crease appearing on his forehead. Addressing his advisor he said, “Get that Hankshah clan executed. I don’t want them to lay their filthy eyes on my precious statue.”

The look on his face was terrible.

“What an animal,” thought the sculptor, well-aware that voicing his thoughts would get him lit ablaze in the Pharaoh’s wrath. It was rather like blasphemy, he mused, considering how the Pharaoh called himself a god.

“I am your master, therefore I will reward you greatly,” said Ozymandias, addressing the sculptor.

There was no gratitude in that voice. Only pride.

*

It was in the darkest hours of the night when Percy checked the letters that had arrived at his doorstep. He had been dispatching letters to his Arab friends, particularly those who regarded Egypt as home.

One of the replies to his queries seemed to strike a chord. It was by a former classmate. Aasiyah wrote, “I can only quote the last Apostle of Allah. I hope this helps you in your quest. Peace from my side of the world.

It is reported that Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said,

‘The best jihad is (to say) a word of justice before a tyrant monarch.’”

Lingering over the Arabic in her signature, Percy scribbled down a word in his notebook.

“Jihad.” Struggle, he translated.

*

“Where are you taking me?” demanded Ozymandias.

They had been traveling for hours. Even the steeds were experiencing exhaustion and wished to stop for rest.

“Just a little farther,” replied the sculptor, calm etched onto his face. Underneath the placid exterior, his heart was beating wildly; this was the moment he had worked months for.

“You fool, you said the same hours ago! Drive faster!” Ozymandias spat at him. He felt no fear or anxiety; only anger at the worthless sculptor. The Pharaoh was not known for his patience.

Ozymandias stroked his nose to distract himself as the sculptor bowed in affirmative and urged the steeds forward.

There in the vastness and eternity of the glimmering expanse of the night sky loomed a huge sculpture.

“And on the pedestal these words appear:”

“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings,” roared Ozymandias marveling at the wordplay. “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

Ozymandias’ euphoria knew no bounds. By the light from the burning wood and the full moon, he turned his gaze upwards addressing a God he did not believe in.

“Despair!” he yelled, as if issuing an order. “DESPAIR!”

The sand dunes rebound his voice, casting his echo in all directions. He laughed like a lunatic. This was the greatest achievement yet. He believed that the earth would now remember him just like the heavens above would never forget him.

“I am invincible. Look at me!” called Ozymandias to those who would listen. “I do not show you, except that which I see. Look at me!”

For a heart-stopping moment the sculptor believed that Ozymandias was really a god. He shivered, remembering every curse and each discreet death wish he had directed towards his ruler. He remembered how he spent a year practicing, sculpting Ozymandias’ face to perfection and then smashing the rocks, once they were ready, with glee. He would start with the eyes first. Always the eyes. He remembered and feared.

Yet when the rising sun revealed the wrinkles on the Pharaoh’s face, his sagging limbs, and the obese structure of the man who claimed to be god, the sculptor could do nothing but stare.

“You are human. Only human,” he blurted out.

Ozymandias could not hear him over his screams of victory, of the sweet success he had immersed himself in. His mind’s eye had conjured up people all over the world standing before him on the empty sand dunes that stretched out for miles and bowing to him. Only to him.

“You will die,” the sculptor carried on as if under a spell, “you may have bracelets of gold, all the money in the land, and a dozen women in your bed but you are no god. You have lofty towers of clay, but those too shall fall and turn to dust. Where will you flee then? You claim to have power but you cannot even control the simplest of things, like blades of grass pushing their way through the soil.”

By now Ozymandias had become attentive. His mouth was hanging open. His senses took in everything; the daybreak, the sculpture and the man who made it with blood and sweat standing before him. Everything.

“The real God sends upon you every kind of torment known to man, and yet you do not repent. Floods, locusts, the frogs, vermin and even blood in the waters of Nile. Yet you do not repent. You are right when you say you are not human. You are the devil personified,” said the sculptor, pausing for breath.

Never would he know that he had already taken his last. Ozymandias, rage pouring from every vessel in him, struck the man down with his own sword.

Despite the sculptor’s hopes, Ozymandias was not silenced. Not yet.

“Whose frown

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive (stamped on lifeless things)”

*

At a reunion arranged at a short notice by his university, Percy noticed Aasiyah sitting in a corner, a gaggle of girls surrounding her, discussing the latest fashions from the British Raj in India. Upon seeing Percy, Aasiyah replaced the bookmark on the book she was reading and excused herself from the group.

They walked into the glorious September warmth of the outside world.

“What were you reading?” asked Percy after they had updated each other on their families and work.

“The Qur’an,” replied Aasiyah, smiling.

“Oh. I’ve heard of that. May I have I look?” inquired Percy.

Aasiyah hesitated for a split second. “It’s in Arabic. You wouldn’t understand.”

Percy was not discouraged. “Can you read some of it to me? Translate it, I mean,” he asked very seriously.

“Of course. Any topic in particular?” Aasiyah thumbed her way through the manuscript.

“Does your God speak of the Egyptians?” ventured Percy timidly.

Aasiyah’s face broke into a smile. “A lot.”

“Then I’d like to hear it please,” replied Percy earnestly.

Aasiyah’s voice trembled as she recited; it grew stronger as she got used to the words she believed in drifting across the rose garden they were seated in.

When she closed the book, Percy was in a place far away. Thanking her profusely, he came to a decision. He had heard enough. All that was left to do, he realized, was to write.

*

“Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

As the pause between the quill and paper grew, somewhere from the distance he heard a woman’s gentle voice translate the message of God for him.

“And We cause to overtake them in this world a curse, and on the Day of Resurrection they will be of al-maqbuheen [those who are prevented from receiving Allah’s Mercy or any good; despised or destroyed].” (Qur’an, 28:42)

Earlier this year, The Federation of Student Islamic Societies (

By Amal Saffour

Once upon a time, night had been his friend.

Underneath her cloak he would sit and watch the city. If the city slept, night was his comrade and his companion. She was his armchair for reflection, his schoolbook, inspiring him with lines of poetry and undiscovered treasures of imagination.

And if the city was alive, if she danced to the tunes of a wedding, burst with the beeps and bustle of traffic, winked at him with her lights; she opened for him the doors of discovery, curiosity, and adventure. His heart raced with the music, his feet itched with delight and longing. The shop lights would beckon at him as he pictured chicken on rotating skewers, the knife coming down on them gently. The quick wrap of bread by nimble fingers. Saha (good health) move on. What’s your order?

Often he would sit on the roadside with his friends, wraps shared between them, meat and yogurt sauce lingering between their teeth. Pass me your unwanted pickles, fat Hassan would laugh. But most of us liked our pickles anyway. The stones are gathered. Who can flick the farthest? Giggles and banter replaced by concentration. Sharp, successive flicks – the sounds of “chinks” recoiling against the wall. Hassan as usual not getting very far. We gather to survey the results, negotiate stones, and take our positions once again. Pause, as a family decides to walk past.

This was the night. It was life and bustle, peace and discovery, friendship and comfort. And that night was no more.

She had disappeared into history books, stacked away in an unknown classroom. She was a dream no longer sought. Her memories were numb. His eyes did not search for her. His arms did not seek her embrace.

He stood outside in the darkness. A sharp wind tugged against the tents. Stones scuffled beneath his soles, welcoming him with a familiar pierce. The hot air dried the sweat of a nightmare off his face. Around him and behind him, he heard soft sobs, muffled cries, heavy breathing, and an overwhelming silence. The silence of uncertainty, of fear.

The vast sky could have meant endless horizons… but it didn’t. Its twinkling stars may one day have spoken to him, but tonight they did not seem to know him. Its sea of blue could have been the ink of his imagination—his poetry. But all he saw was blackness and rejection.

Not peace, but turbulence in his heart. Its rapid beatings brought back the flashbacks of his nightmare, of things his young eyes should not have seen. “Hassan, is that you?” Hand sticking out of rubble, as if waving… but ever so still. Like when they performed a play at school and that Mahmoud, ever so brilliant at acting, kept the audience on their toes and brought tears to the mother’s eyes as he lay dead in pretence. But this time? This was real death. Not an actor on the floor in a school hall who would get up and laugh at the end of it, but someone who would remain still…forever. Hassan was forever still.

Another jolt, another memory. A terrible sound – like a thousand trays had crashed to the floor. And flashes of light that made them run to their mother. Feelings he did not know, could not describe, were pulling and grabbing at his throat. Why was he shaking, shivering, his flesh jumping, crying ecstatically? O mama, what are these sounds? O Mama, save me!

This now was the night. Not friendly beckoning lights, but images of fire raging angrily in his face. No sound of music or life, but memories of explosions – of screams from hell. Night was his sister’s hollow eyes. Night had destroyed his home, stolen his brother. Night was Hassan’s white face, sometimes asking for pickles, bursting into a smile, and then forever remaining still.

Night fought with his head: tumbling images, tightly wrapped emotions, till exhausted, he sunk to his knees.  I don’t know.

I don’t know.

What would Mr. Ahmed say? I can’t even write poetry anymore. Hassan… why is your face so white? Why did you wave at me if you weren’t going to come back? Why didn’t you hide yourself underneath all that rubble? Night… why did you betray me?

And like he did in every night… he released. To horrors indescribable. To miseries far reaching. A sticky wetness spread into his trousers, wetting himself, as he pulled himself together and sobbed his shame into the night.

And night, powerless, wishing she could reach out and bring back their days of happiness… cried out in anguish and sorrow at what humanity had made of her.

But humanity, dumb and blind, never heard her.

Amal Saffour studied English Language and Literature at Kings College London and thereafter did her PGCE at the Institute of Education. A qualified teacher, she recently left teaching to work in a Syrian Human Rights organisation, as well as the charitable sector. As someone who loves and values the power of words, she blogs her poetry and reflections at www.homeboundblogger.wordpress.com, with plans to develop it further. Amal was also Vice President of FOSIS between 2010-12 and has been active in community and youth work in the UK.