“Astagfirullah!” Mother always wrapped her tongue with these words,
as though the angel of death would never find her in the warmth of her supplications.
Call it a paradox, that God who breathes in life can cough it out in a blink of an eye.
“Allahu Akbar!” When the mosque was free from mothers’ fragrance,
I knew her soul had become a traveller.
Father wore sorrow into his turban,
as though the stitches would rewind time before the morning prayer.
Mother had returned to her Rabb,
And I, tying my heart with her words, wrote her into a poem.
Call it a metaphor, that pain can be photoshopped into a joyful memory.
Call it an irony, that six feet deep can be your home, yet farther to reach.
“Astagfirullah!” Fifteen years a poem, and my pen still makes dua.
Perhaps one day, the angel of death will be a passerby.
“Call it a metaphor, that pain can be photoshopped into a joyful memory.
Call it an irony, that six feet deep can be your home, yet farther to reach.
“Astagfirullah!” Fifteen years a poem, and my pen still makes dua.
Perhaps one day, the angel of death will be a passerby.”
Speak of words that can make you smile and cry at the same time. 😭😊 I read this piece twice because it clearly reminds me of the beauty of poetry. I love it, and thanks for sharing it with us. 👏👏
Thank you so much, Destar. It is an honour.
“Perhaps, one day the angel of death will be a passerby.”
I love that, it reminds me of the Passover lamb in Exodus.
Thank you so much, sir.
This is beautiful
Thank you so much.
I’ve never read a poem this sad and touching
Thank you so much
A nice poem.
Thank you so much.
Now this is what I’m talking about, this is what makes me sleepless at night when I’m trapped by my own muse.. such splendid use of sweet words. Weldone Bard
Thank you so much, I really appreciate your words.