 A poem titled, The Kebla. Each year they look on with scorn to the house with gold cloth they adorn at the proof of Allah and His right, the crack that they fill in the night. Only to wake the next day and find it back open dismayed. It chokes them to bow when they pray to the place where Faltima once lay and gave birth to a son named Ali, the prophet's successor, Wasi. They hate that the one that they scorn is the one in God's house that was born. The line between heaven and hell before him the idols all fell. Try as they may, they will fail as we board on their ark and set sail. Bound to the path of the truth embellished with paradise fruits. On couches reclined the good souls who did what was right as was told and held on to two weighty things and the blessings which from them they bring. Ya Allah to your warnings we heard and from the truth we are never deterred. We stand by the haqq of Ali as was told by Muhammad al-Nabi. In your mercy we place all our hope and we cling to what's left of the rope. We turn not away as they do and follow who leads us to you.