The tale of Faruq, a name whispered low,
Echoes still, where winds of memory blow.
When Caliphate's crown graced Faruq's head,
The faithful's care, his constant bread.
He served the weak, each burden bore,
With humble heart, he knocked on every door.
One day he paused, a dwelling near,
A woman wept, consumed by fear.
A pot simmered, her children's cries,
He asked, "Why tears in youthful eyes?"
"Hunger's sting," she said, her voice a plea,
"They weep for food, they long to be."
"What brews within the pot's dark space?
Tell me your sorrow, find your grace."
She sighed, "Water simmers there,
A trick to soothe, a hollow prayer.
They crave a grain, a morsel small,
I have no food to feed them all.
Three days have passed, this hunger's blight,
No help is near, no guiding light."
He wept, the sight, a piercing dart,
Tears fell upon his noble heart.
He rushed, his robes a hurried blur,
To gather aid, a helping spur.
Flour, cloth, and ghee, dates sweet and brown,
He brought the means, to ease their frown.
His servant said, "Let me bear the load,
Your burden heavy on the road."
"If I should fail, in judgment's hour,
What recompense? What Godly power?"
He gave the gifts, the solace found,
And cooked the meal upon the ground.
The children ate, the woman too,
And joy bloomed, fresh and new.
Faruq, he smiled, their happiness to see,
They blessed his name, in humble glee.
"May Allah grant," the woman prayed,
"A Caliph like you, our souls to aid.
The wealthy feast, the poor unseen,
No solace offered, nothing clean."
The words they struck, a whispered ache,
Faruq returned, his heart to break.
He bore the weight, the heavy price,
Of shadowed lives, the sacrifice.
The morning came, the woman there,
Faruq bestowed, a loving care.
From the treasury, her needs supplied,
"I failed you once," he humbly sighed.
"Forgive my fault, my oversight,
May God forgive, and make all right."
The world proclaims, Faruq's noble name,
In justice's realm, he has no equal claim.
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