(Inspired by Surah Yā Sīn ayah 12 and an earlier article.)
I sit with my elders—silent, still,
Their faces are maps of time’s quiet will.
Eyes that have watched generations unfold,
Hands that have weathered both fire and cold.
Knotted by age, those fingers once strong
Built homes, cradled infants, righted the wrong.
What scenes have they witnessed through dimming gaze?
What burdens they bore through life’s winding maze.
They speak—not in haste—but with weight in each word,
Of triumphs and failures, of prayers never heard.
Of parents now gone, of friends laid low,
Of moments they cherished, and those they let go.
Their voices recall both the joy and the strife
A ledger of love, of loss, and of life.
They speak of regrets, of deeds left undone,
Of hoping for mercy when their days are all run.
They speak of the Book, of the Judgement ahead,
When the soul shall be called and the record be read
To be with the lost whom their hearts still pursue,
In gardens of peace, where all things are made new.
إِنَّا نَحْنُ نُحْىِ ٱلْمَوْتَىٰ وَنَكْتُبُ مَا قَدَّمُوا۟ وَءَاثَـٰرَهُمْ ۚ وَكُلَّ شَىْءٍ أَحْصَيْنَـٰهُ فِىٓ إِمَامٍۢ مُّبِينٍۢ It is certainly We Who resurrect the dead, and write what they send forth and what they leave behind. Everything is listed by Us in a perfect Record. (Yā Sīn 12)
I sit with the elders—their silence now mine,
Their wisdom a lantern, their memory a sign.
And through their worn eyes, I quietly find
A mirror that measures my own fleeting time.
What am I sending into the light?
What will endure when I pass from sight?
Each breath is a line, each act is a page
All written, recorded, from youth into age.
So I rise, with a heart more aware of its climb,
Of the weight of my choices in the Book beyond time.
