Poetry
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Paradise is a garden. So I collect good deeds, And as if they were seeds I try to plant them. But I am too eager to check If they have borne fruit. I pull out my good deeds Without giving them the chance To set root.
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Yusra Dahri, Tilford لَا تُدۡرِکُہُ الۡاَبۡصَارُ ۫ وَہُوَ یُدۡرِکُ الۡاَبۡصَارَ ۚ وَہُوَ اللَّطِیۡفُ الۡخَبِیۡرُ ‘Eyes cannot reach Him but He reaches the eyes. And He is the Incomprehensible, the All-Aware.’ The Holy Qur’an, 6:104 We are in the maze of idols,Desperate to find the Centre.These hedges of tamarisk are so thickThat we cannot break them.And…
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Tooba Khokhar, Cambridge There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. i Childhood is an age of wonder, a time when our eyes have not grown used to the sights of this…
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Saira Iffat Bhatti, Slough The air shifts. Something stirs. A thousand steps quicken without a word, As though the earth itself knows that something sacred is near. They’ve come from motorways and meadows, Pushing buggies, carrying toddlers, Draped in cultures and colours. Hearts alight with one shared hope: to catch a glimpse. To hear the…
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Yusra Dahri, Surrey
Voice of British Muslim Women 