Prophetic lovers have no other choice but to sing his praises to cool their hearts set on fire.
Hope: No one recognized me
Until I stood beside him.
Honor: I’d turned to ashes
Until I took refuge in his shade.
Harmony: I ceased to exist
Until I saw myself in his mirror.
Humanity’s cup remained empty
Until his love-wine filled it to the brim.
Allah!
We have no other choice
But to sing his praise;
As Meem sets our hearts on fire,
His love consumes our desire.
To calm the breath,
And heal the heart,
And still the shivering feet,
And tame the insane mind.
You know well our mean intentions;
We knit our “lies” with the love-thread.
We admit his praise
Surpasses our human words,
Yet we try in vain
To relieve our throbbing hearts.
Oct 28, 2025 | Jumada al-Awwal 6, 1447