Dust to Dust
(This poem traces the stories of three infants stranded in difficult circumstances at different points in prophetic and Islamic history. I invite you all to step into the shoes of their parents and briefly experience both their anguish when Allah subjects them to the trials he reserves for those closest to him and their joy when Allah eases their hardship and brings them comfort.)
A mother paces in the sand,
tortured by the feeble wails
of her infant parched with thirst
who lies in the barren vale
tucked beneath a stunted tree
in a shelter which she made
by draping bough with threadbare cloak
to create a scrap of shade.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Lured from peak to bare peak by
the liquid gleam where sun strikes sand
and hot air echoes the cool sky.
Sand coats her garment like fine ash,
cakes the grooves of her cracked feet.
She stumbles on her ragged hem,
withering in the dry heat.
Helpless in an empty land,
she breathes in sharp and jagged bursts.
When, at last, the wails cease,
her heart throbs and it fears the worst.
Only when she returns, she sees
water bubbling near his feet.
With her palms she cups the flood
that turns sand and dust to mud.
*******
A mother sinks into the sand
and wails, wracked with labor pains,
“I wish I’d died before this day”
dreading those quick to place blame.
Beneath a date palm, dead and bare,
a shelter that provides no shade,
she wraps her infant in her cloak.
He tells her, “Do not be afraid.”
She dries the tears that streak her face,
guided by her infant’s words:
“Eat, drink, and be comforted.”
From his lips God’s voice is heard.
She grips the palm trunk with her palms.
Its teeth bite into her skin.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
She shakes it. Life blossoms within.
The dead tree now swells with fruit.
New green palm fronds spread their wings.
At last, ripe dates fall around her.
From hot earth a cool stream springs.
Sun by stream and tree made mild,
she cups the flood, suckles her child,
for whom a dead tree came alive,
through whom the dead will be revived.
*******
A father paces in the sand,
infant swaddled in his cloak
whose wails thirst quelled long before
the arrow struck that tiny throat.
His infant’s tongue is paper dry
from seeking moisture in scorched air,
a mother’s milk a memory
of which it’s no longer aware.
He grieves the limp form in his arms
—his own body wounded, bruised—
beard soaked with tears and blood
the heavens and the earth refused.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
His tears, more salt than water, flow.
“Indeed we all belong to God,
and back to God we all will go.”
At last, he scrapes a shallow grave,
using the blade of his sword,
then smooths the sand over his son,
entrusting him now to his Lord.
Bare earth blankets grave unmarked
save by a patch of dust made dark
where it mixed with tears and blood
and, without water, turned to mud.
*******
Thus the land which sprang to life
to welcome Isa from the womb
folds Ali in layers of earth
and becomes his sandy tomb.
His mother did not drink its water,
and she did not taste its fruit,
had no milk with which to feed him—
an arrow a poor substitute.
From barren earth, no Zamzam bursts
to quench this infant martyr’s thirst,
for, waiting on the other side
stands Kawthar with her arms spread wide.
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