By JH Sayyar
When the mosques lie broken in the dust,
Domes, bright, are cracked by hands profane,
The call to prayer lies silent, choked with rust,
Faith walks barefoot through the fields of pain.
The stones that heard the Qur’an’s sacred tone
Now weep beneath the moon’s forsaken light;
Each shattered arch becomes a grieving throne
Where angels veil their faces from the sight
For when His house is torn, His word defiled,
Skies grow dark, the winds with sorrow groan;
The earth remembers every prayer once piled,
And Heaven trembles for its Master’s own.
O Muslims rise up; restore the House of Right,
Lest God’s own Throne shake deeper in the night
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