The scholars sacrifice their books to hear,
The warriors, their arms, that they may touch,
The children, all their toys, to just be near,
This man. No man was ever loved this much.
And now ‘Adiyy bin Hātim, son of Tayy,
Of line defining generosity,
Found himself in Madinah standing by
A grandmother who kept his company.
He watched him standing on the dusty way
Conversing with that frailness bent with years,
Unhastening despite the long delay,
Attending, reassuring, calming fears.
‘Adiyy received more than he ever gave:
Came looking for the king and found the slave.
The winds just need an opening to blow
Into your secret rooms where you conceal
Your cryptic and subversive plans below
The floorboards creaking every time you kneel
The rains survey the weakness in your roof
And seek a path to fall into your space
Where moisture plays its wrinkles into truth
Well hidden in the patterns of your drapes
And where the wind and rain may find admission
There, the cold will follow in the end
To plunge your quarters into indecision
That oft accompanies the rain and wind
Repair the roof and windows, seal the door
And let your weary forehead warm the floor
When we consider generosity,
We think of those possessed of wealth and time
Who give with or without the vanity
That often taints a gift with hues of crime.
And then we hear the term afresh from those
Who saw its splendor in prophetic light,
For giving matters when the giver knows
The value of what’s given, all despite
The ignorance and bliss ingratitude
Of them who walk the earth in heedlessness
While harvesting the riches that accrued
Upon the breaths of those who do with less.
SubhanAllah is charity that turns
The world despite the punishment it earns.
The ummah is as one body.
We wonder where the hate we see begins;
We blame the haters and their mentoring,
But seldom see the damage that our sins
May wreak upon the hearts they’re entering.
We hate our children when we fail their cause;
We hate our spouses as we burden them;
We even hate our siblings, all because
We give our selves a love we cannot stem.
So hear the words the minbar sends our way:
“Allah! He does not change a people who
Refuse to change their selves.” Should we not say,
Your family should matter more than you?
A thorn on Cherry Street by any means
Can cause a vein to hemorrhage on Deans.
It’s true that sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words are such a different projectile,
For even do the deadliest of drones
Annihilate the living in a while;
But words may lodge themselves within the heart
In some dark corner that the jinn know well,
And there they linger as a poison dart
Secreting the intoxicants of hell.
Remember now when he with tongue so mild
Had turned, a brokenhearted man, to Ṭāʾif
To be rejected, driven and reviled
In what was then his weakest time in life.
Yet when the wrath of angels sprang above,
He held them back with words of patient love.