Gardens beneath which Rivers Flow

A letter to the world’s leaders, from a Muslim

You may command the earth I tread,
The borders I may never cross;
You may leave ruins for my home,
Then ask me to explain my loss.

You may destroy the life I built,
Take all I have and call it peace;
But you cannot command my heart
To make its hope in it’s maker cease.

Call me a villain, stain my name,
Let “terrorist” obscure my face;
Say “radical,” say “Nazi,” too—
Your words cannot my worth erase.

Take all my shelter, all my bread;
Leave me with nowhere left to go.
You do not own the gardens there,
Beneath which living rivers flow.

A mother kneels beside the stones
Where once she tucked her child in bed;
Her tears fall on a little sleeve;
She strokes the dust upon his head.

A child’s wail fills the broken street;
He calls for arms he cannot find.
The smoke obscures the midday sun;
His mother’s body is buried behind.

And see the face of one who knows
These final breaths are all he has:
His lips still form a loved one’s name
or a prayer, only Allah knows.

The charred lie covered, side by side;
Their names are spoken through the tears.
Each had a voice, a favourite meal,
A plan for all the coming years.

These broken homes were full of life:
A pot of tea, a chair, a stair,
A child who marked his growing height,
A little boy, or a girl, their mother’s delight.

Do not make numbers of these lives
Or call their absence something small.
A world was held in every heart;
Its Maker knew and loved them all.

I do not wish an early grave
Or seek the sorrow you can give.
My hope beyond this passing world
Does not undo my wish to live.

Like Abel, faced with Cain’s intent,
I fear my Lord and will refrain;
You bear the guilt for blood you shed;
I will not kill to share that stain.

The wronged will have their claims restored
From deeds their wrongdoers once possessed;
And when no good remains to give,
They bear the sins of those oppressed.

Your table stretches down the hall;
You still have just one mouth to feed.
Though servants hurry at your call,
One stomach cannot hold it all.

A hundred bedrooms wait for you;
One bed is all that you can keep
Beneath your body through the night;
No speech can free you from your sleep.

The watch that glitters on your wrist
Cannot persuade one hour to stay;
Its diamonds cannot buy you back
The smallest moment gone away.

And age will find us both at last;
No guard can turn it from your door.
The hand that signed a thousand laws
Will rest, and sign its name no more.

Then comes the Day of Judgement: truth
No wealth can bribe, no power delay.
The crowds that cheered will leave your side;
No courtier speaks your guilt away.

The mouths that shaped the public tale
Will close; the hands and feet will tell.
No polished phrase will change a deed,
Though once it served its speaker well.

The mother’s tears, the orphan’s cries,
The names beneath the fallen stone—
What you dismissed, what you denied,
Was seen by Him, and always known.

And I must face that reckoning too,
With all the faults I cannot hide;
No wounds will excuse any wrongs
Or set the scales of truth aside.

I claim no garden as my due,
No spotless record of my own;
I ask for mercy from my Lord,
And bow before His judgement throne.

So spare the child. Put down the pen
Before it signs another death.
There still is time to choose the good;
There still is life within your breath.

Restore the home. Withdraw the lie.
Let those who mourn be heard at last.
You cannot bring their loved ones back;
Let no new grief repeat the past.

And I will work for justice here,
For bread and shelter, peace and trust;
Then leave what lies beyond my strength
With Him whose judgement will be just.

I pray that where the rivers run,
His mercy grants me room to rest;
The mother holds her child again,
His breathing quiet at her breast.

You may take all I hold today;
You cannot take what He may give.
You cannot tear that hope from me:
Within its light, I choose to live.

The gardens lie beyond your reach;
Their rivers need not your leave to flow.
They were never yours to give,
Nor yours to take. This much I know.

The gardens beneath which rivers flow.

Allah has promised the believers, both men and women, Gardens under which rivers flow (Quran 9:72 – Excerpt).