Last night, Israfil's trumpet blared,
Above the land of Rafah, it declared.
The air ceased its flow, no longer a sigh,
Replaced by screams and cries that quickly die.
The parched earth, once dry and so worn,
Turned wet, crimson red, and blackened, forlorn.

Before the second trumpet call summons their souls,
The angels descended,
To gather the righteous,
To a land of white, like polished silver it unfolds,
Surrounded by musk, like sand that's been poured.

The night sky bustled, a scene so grand,
Heaven's gates opened, to the serene land,
A line stretched...