I enter where the cries of children sound
And therein dwell until they die away
Where mothers’ soft embraces can’t be found
And fathers’ mighty hands may hold no sway;
And though my anger swells, I have no leave
To act till comes to pass the death of time,
But well I see the the stricken when they grieve
And well I study souls that fashion crime.
My day will come, and when it comes, the damned
Will find their hearts within my horrid clasp
When all their hands had wrought, their necks, shall brand
Until escapes their lips a wretched gasp.
I weigh, withhold, withdraw to watch and wait
For when inversion bears the damned their fate.
– – – – – – – – – –
Even the lowest angel forms are an intelligent force to reckon with, sworn to justice, unwavering, serving only The Muntaqim. Preserve us, O Rahmaan, in Your Love and Mercy.

Post Categories: Poetry, Sonnet

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