Mina Poem by Dr Shamim Ali

A valley small, where tents take flight,
White canvas seas beneath the light,
Not gold, not marble, not a throne
Just simple cloth, just sacred stone.
Here Ibrahim once heard the call,
To give his son, to give his all,
And Ismail bowed, his heart held still,
'You'll find me patient to God's will.'
The blade was raised, then stayed by grace,
A ram appeared to take his place,
And ever since, this valley keeps
The story of a love that weeps
Not out of fear, but out of trust,
That even tested down to dust,
Obedience finds its way back home,
And mercy meets wherever we roam.
Three pillars stand for Shaytan's voice,
Reminding pilgrims of their choice
Stones are thrown, both small and grand,
Rejecting doubt with each pilgrim's hand.
A million voices rise as one,
'Allahu Akbar' till day is done,
No rank, no class, no crown, no name,
Each soul arrives to God the same.
So Mina holds more than just sand,
It holds a story, a steady hand,
Of sacrifice and humble prayer,
Of faith that conquers deep despair.
And when the tents are folded away,
And pilgrims leave, their own way,
This valley waits, quiet, still,
To test again the willing will.