By Masroor Mahmud Adeeyo
This path,
Walked by my fathers,
Winding through Jalsa Gah,
A road of helping hands,
Blessed with the dust of compassion,
Untarred, but paved with respect.
This path,
Favored in my mother’s eyes,
Through the chilly winds of December in Jamia,
Blowing me away from the valleys,
Valleys of villainous vices.
This path,
Though hard it may be,
And long it may seem,
From the gates to the parking lot,
This path, I shall tow—
A trail of goodness, of deeds,
Accepted by my Creator.
This path,
Walked by the prophets,
And favored in the eyes of the Huzur,
Acts of inherent good,
Surrounded by streams—
Silent streams of sympathy.
This path,
Painstaking it may be,
But I will place my feet with care,
To stand before the Amir,
Where this crown of good
Shall not fall from my head.
This path,
Never to be forgotten,
A baton passed from progenitors
To offspring,
From Security posts to Jalsa gah,
From the Jalsa clinic to Car park,
Lies unbroken streaks of goodness.
