Faatimiyyah (Writings)

The Princess and The Wall

You are the lady of light

Then why do you choose to dwell in the night?

You are an example,

Then why was an example made of you?

You sit here and cry to me,

Why you are lonely, I do not see.

Are you not the essence of humility?

Yet what was done to you…Inhumanity,

I ask for the strength of speech,

But your due, does no consolation reach.

Have you not given many a sacrifice?

Yet your Mohsin was killed, a door the device.

I wish to show my grief,

Limitation halts me from providing relief.

Are you not the niece of Usayd, the just?

Yet your garden, it was snatched for worldly lust

I try to reach out to console,

Though, I trust A’dalah will take its toll

You are the daughter of Ameerat Quraysh,

Yet your home was left to burn and crash,

Safety is impossible to be offered,

But know no one as much as you; has suffered.

You tell me that day would turn to night,

If like you it had to fight,

But you are a creation so exalted,

Day and night comparatively feel faulted.

Then Sayyeda Faatimah spoke her reason,

Addressing her companion the walls of Bayt al Huzn

I weep because I have you, my listener.

Although shunned I am, I have a container.

But my Ali, he will be all alone,

And to a well he will have to mourn.

There are tears in my eyes because,

You have never questioned my cause,

But my Hassan, he will be misinterpreted,

Amidst friends he will be alienated.

I cry because, I have a place to go,

When backs are turned, I know.

But my Husayn will stand prone,

To arrows, while getting injustice overthrown.

I lament because you cover me,

When I am ashamed you do not let anyone see,

But my Zainab, she will be paraded,

With no veil, her family raided.

I mourn because are we not the holy?

Yet we are treated so lowly…

Today

The face of the earth,

The blue of the sky,

The grit of dirt,

Today all cry.

Today the greens of grass,

The crystal of water,

The atoms of matter,

They are all tearing.

The warmth of flames,

The chill of ice,

The flow of wind,

Weeps today.

Today the patience of Hassan gives in,

The strength of Husayn crumbles,

The veil of Zainab is ripped,

The support of Kulthum slips away,

Today the children of Faatimah are orphaned...

Known Till Judgement Day 

A Knock on the door,

The need of the needy,

The beggar's gaze to the floor,

Her eyes filled and teary.

A knock on the door,

The surprise of the bride,

Her gaze to her couture,

Eyes filled with pride.

A dress on her hands, 

Stretched out in generosity,

Her, the selfless in all the land,

Her acts of sincerity.

A dress on her hand,

Stretched  out in generosity,

The beggars look selfward and shamed,

Her act of necessity. 

A smile on her face,

That ran for miles and soared for the rainbows,

Her overflowing grace,

Her rank none can overthrow.

A smile on their face,

That illuminated the far and the wide,

Their angelic daze,

As they brought Fatimah her dress heaven made.

Yet today the day has come,

When she is laid to rest,

With a crowd my fingers can sum,

She has completed her test.

That was the end of her don't dare say,

Fatimah is a name, known till the judgement day.

The Cry of The Warrior

A cry echoes off the walls,

And into the night it crawls,

Lights are dim,

The loss of Fatimah has set in.

A coffin is taken out,

Where to, we still are in doubt,

It was in the night we know,

Into the dark went the glow.

In the crying, there is heaviness,

As he feels left in the wilderness,

All his strength has withered,

His love has immensely suffered.

To Allah he then turned,

What they did to her, he mourned,

A shaking in his knees,

His tearing doesnt sieze.

The cry echoes off the walls,

And to the night it crawls,

It is the weeping of the warrior,

Her ribs make him sorrier,

It is the cry of Ali, 

As he bathes his passed Fatimah,

Ali's cry echoes off the walls,

And into the night it crawls.

Cry for the Princess 

There is one lady in history who in a short life span of 18 - give or take- went through the ultimate obstacles. She went from being the daughter who was kept at a time that daughters were shunned with death, to a little girl who took care of her oppressed and demeaned father. Then the hunger struck Valleys of Abu Talib, And then through the whirlwind of the migration after which she was given her due as the holy daughter of the Prophet of God. A due that was snatched from her as soon as she lost her dear father.
There is one lady in history who in a short life span of 18 - give or take- went through the ultimate obstacles... and came out victorious in the eyes of God and the thousands she has set the perfect example for. Her name... Fatimah (a.s)

Umm Abeeha they called her,
the mother of her father,
the tender to his wounds,
the mender of his heart.


Then after pain and shame,
And many a risky ordain,
She went from Mecca, to Madinah,
A princess she became.


A while from then came the inevitable,
The knock of death, undeniable,
The loss of her father,
A pain, unbearable.


Not long after, she was tending to wounds again,
But these were inflicted, by those once good men,
Men who were once friends.


That man is fickle, who can pray behind the prophet,
And then for a nickle, destroy his Fatimah, 
Her home, ignited.


So cry for her, and loose sleep,
The young of age princess, gone grey of grief,
Hurt. Oppressed. Yet she couldn't even weep.


Cry for the lady,
For whom food came from the skies,
Yet she was haunted and taunted,
By tyrants greedy, full of lies.


So cry for the princess, a vision that never dies,
Cry for the princess, with a life full of tries. 

The Lone Slave

When she looks to the left she finds there is no one,

And to the right there is more silence.

She braces herself for another day, another dawn.

With nothing and no one.

She goes through the motions, the up and go,

And the downs and lows.

The hunger in her belly,

The yearning in her heart,

The churning sorrow in her soul.

She waits for the morning call so that she may turn to her lord,

And in that moment she thinks of a lady well known.

A woman so holy, and more than brave,

Yet no one ever visits her grave!

She sits there in the dark with her head on a tree bark

What must it be for Fatimah? She asks..

"Is it a quiet, peaceful solace?

Or an injustice for a lady with such a place?"

She turns to the skies and whispers,

“Oh the grandson of the wrongly oppressed,

Oh the hidden master,

The honor of a visit is all I ask for,

And to leave will never be a preference.

So that Fatimah is never lonely,

And when she looks to the left and finds there is no one,

And to the right there is more silence,

She will look to her feet and there I will be...”