They Have Hearts, Yet They Do Not Feel Poem by Mohammad Younus

They have hearts, yet they do not feel—
chambers choked with dust, silted thick
by the marketplace of façades,
where storms of unyielding deluge
smother the pulse of awakening, of light.

They walk with eyes unseeing
as Truth's vine spirals,
They have ears, yet they do not hear—
deaf to Kawthar's stream, its current
chanting His name in every ripple,
or dawn's murmur, pleading: Return, Return
as night's shroud dissolves.

The unseen cry reverberates—
a bell trembling in the marrow's hollow—
yet they sprint through cities of craving,
chasing phantom-songs down alleys of thirst.
Even cattle heed their pasture,
nested in instinct's cradle,
but these—
they trade the soul's compass
for a cot in the maze,
dreaming of doors that are walls.

Hell is no chasm but a slow scorch—
the incineration of memory,
a heart fossilizing to flint,
its chambers entombed.
Each spurned truth layers the sediment
until even wind reeks of cinder.

But wait—
there are those who shudder,
who press palms to soil
as dawn's ink spills into flame.

They kneel where silence gathers,
listening for the name carved in timelessness,
the sigh woven into Adam's dust.
They grind their hearts on patience's wheel,
burnishing glass with the gravel of grace,
until their ribs kindle with borrowed fire.

To them, the world unravels—
a scroll stitched from radiance and resonance,
each ember a syllable, each note a hymn,
chanting: Haq, Haq, Haq.

—MyKoul