The sword could never

This soul is nowhere near dying

This ink is nowhere near drying

It began pouring eons ago

Elsewhere

Yet it just started serenading pages of silk

Now the pen bleeds its channeled essence,

Poetry flows forth red rains of the heart, and all of its blessings

Observing men di(v)e

In war’s arbitragic endeavour

I am here

A Bearer of Glad Tidings

Come foul or fair weather

Heaven, cleave aside these sins of pleasure—

Virtues, good deeds and all of their treasure

See margins of the map come alive

as giants stumble

Heads roll from bodies severed

Watch sovereignty slowly crumble

We know a woman whose prayers penetrate hearts

— in ways the sword could never.

It’s from اللّٰه