The Refugees Of Heaven
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 long, a celestial queue,
Angels guiding small hands, bathed in morning dew.
To the highest gates, a place most divine,
Where they'll forever eternally shine.

So bright was the night, a celestial sight,
As if sun, moon, and stars, all burned with radiant light.

No longer for them,
The scorching heat, the chilling night,
The shrieks of those who steal the breath,
The hunger and thirst, a relentless death.

"After Rafah, We'll evacuate to heaven."

Now they have reached the most beautiful place,
Where rivers of milk, wine, and honey, sweetness untold,
Delightful streams flow beneath their embrace,
A light like the dawn, forever to unfold.
No heat nor cold, no dust to choke,
Just blissful peace, a divine awoke.

Now they have arrived in Your paradise,
Where everlasting happiness never dies.

© 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑧𝑎𝑤𝑖𝑐𝑐𝑎