A POETIC PORTRAIT OF PROPHET MUHAMMAD (PBUH)
A lyrical, emotional, devotional narrative based on authentic events
He came into the world
not with the thunder of kings
but with the quiet promise of mercy.
An orphan cradled in the arms of fate,
yet protected by the One
who never abandons hearts that shine.
As a boy, he walked the valleys of Makkah
with a gentleness untouched by the desert winds.
Truth sat on his tongue like a familiar companion,
and trust followed him
like a shadow that never left.
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People whispered his names
long before prophethood touched him.
As-Sadiq.
Al-Amin.
The truthful one.
The trustworthy one.
In a world of rough hands and restless tempers,
he was a soft light.
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He grew,
not into wealth,
not into power,
but into character.
When the tribes quarreled over the Black Stone
and pride rose like dust in the air,
he placed a cloth upon the ground
and a miracle of peace upon their hearts.
Calm, wise, gentle—
he was the man who could untie knots
with his quiet presence.
Then came the night of Hira—
a night that split history in two.
A trembling soul,
a heavenly voice,
a command that echoed through eternity:
Read.
Light entered the world that night
through a man who could not read,
yet would teach the world
what no scholar had ever known.
He returned home shaking,
but Khadija held his fear in her steady hands
and reminded him of the truth
he had always carried:
“You uphold the weak, you honor the guest,
Allah will never disgrace you.”
But the world tried.
They threw stones at him,
and insults sharper than stones.
They placed filth on his back while he prayed.
They called him mad,
called him a liar,
called him everything
except what he truly was.
A mercy.
In Taif,
when his sandals filled with blood
and his heart with pain,
he lifted his tear-streaked face to the sky
and prayed for the very people
who had wounded him.
What kind of man loves those
who hurt him?
Only the kind sent as mercy
to all the worlds.
He entered Medina like dawn—
softly, steadily, sweeping darkness aside.
A city found its soul,
and the poor found a father,
and the slaves found a liberator,
and the orphans found a shelter.
He laughed with the children.
He sat with the lonely.
He listened to the broken.
He wiped tears that weren’t his.
He carried burdens that weren’t his.
He forgave mistakes that weren’t his.
Yet he thanked Allah for every breath
as though the world had never wronged him.
On battlefields,
he stood where swords were many
and fear was loud.
Bravery leaned on him
as men leaned on shields.
He did not fight out of rage
but duty—
to protect,
to defend,
to uphold truth
even when the world shook.
When victory finally crowned him,
and Makkah trembled under his command,
he did not stand tall.
He lowered his head in humility
as if the weight of mercy
had bent him.
“Today there is no blame upon you,” he said.
And the city that once exiled him
was reborn in forgiveness.
In his home,
he mended his sandals,
patched his clothes,
and milked his own goats.
He walked with widows,
visited the sick,
and prayed at midnight
until his feet swelled.
Aisha asked him,
“Why do you strain yourself so,
when your Lord has forgiven you?”
He answered with tears,
“Should I not be a grateful servant?”
Gratitude was his breath.
Humility his garment.
Mercy his legacy.
And when the final moment came,
he whispered,
“O Allah… the Highest Companion,”
as if he could already see
the light waiting for him beyond the veil.
He left this world
with no palace,
no treasure,
no throne—
only a heart that had illuminated nations,
a character that had softened enemies,
a message that had lifted humanity.
And even today,
fourteen hundred years removed,
he is the living poem
the world cannot forget—
the verse that breathes,
the mercy that walks,
the light that never dies.
This was Muhammad—
the Prophet of Allah,
peace and blessings be upon him.
A man whose life was a poem
written by the Divine hand of mercy.
