Wander along the trail of submission, oh child of grief and loss.
There you shall find what you seek most dear,
engaged in remembering the Beloved:

The Moon,
who rose amongst the desert tribes,
bathing the Arabian peninsula.
The creation rejoiced as his light transpired,
enveloped with the wisdom in Hira.

Yet evil endures in the hearts of men,
when the Self is crowned supreme.
Thus the Moon was scorned in his call for peace,
and his gentle breeze ignored.

In the traversing of pain lies the beauty within,
and the Moon was afflicted with the harshest.
Upon the storms of torment, resolute his orbit,
neither light had dimmed, nor groan retorted.
Upon the trial of Taif, though his heart was shattered,
revenge was not sought by the Moon.
He looked to Allah, in the depths of bleakness,
“To You, my Lord,
I complain of weakness..”

A mercy to man, the polisher of souls,
entrenched within love, so deep was his woe
in his pangs for the passing of his Queen.
As he ached with the passing of his little boy,
with newly blossomed, tender leaves.
Indeed,
the Beloved carried fissures,
fissures that travelled deep.

But the Moon shined brightest in the darkest of nights,
and the neighbouring sands saw truth in the light.
Igniting into stars circling upright,
the message of God alas took flight.

And thus was the word of God delivered,
through the labour of the Moon and the Stars.
But the time had come for the Prophet to leave,
to return to the embrace of God.

It was said upon his death,
the heavens sung with glee,
for apart they were no more from Muhammed for whom be peace.

It was said upon his death,
the Earth renounced all joy,
for departed from her land was the gold amongst alloy:
Muhammed, the seal of prophethood.

So as the nights grow colder,
and the candles flicker down,
the one who knows love merely longs the view,
of the prophetic light,
the beloved Moon.

Photo by Benjamin Child on Unsplash