A tender tale the River tells, this tale of woe and grace,
A famed account of Ramadan, a holy time and space.
In Yemen's land, a child did dwell, a boy of eight years young,
Whose beauty spread through every town, a story on each tongue.
He yearned to fast, in God's great name, with fasts he longed to keep,
When Ramadan's new crescent moon did from the heavens peep.
He turned to his dear mother then, with fervent, hopeful plea,
"I'll fast, dear Mother, I will fast, in reverence, set me free.
Wake me at night, for Suhoor's fare, my spirit to sustain."
His mother, though, dismissed his words, and brushed aside his pain.
The morning came, a heavy heart, the boy was filled with woe.
"My dearest, do not grieve," she said, "My darling, let it go.
Fasting is not yet your due, my precious, tender son."
His innocent heart was pierced with pain, his answer had begun:
"Mother, hear what the Quran says, of the trials we face,
The hunger and the thirst endured, in this hallowed, holy place.
The fasting soul, in trials deep, from hell shall be set free."
The Quran's light, in this month shone, God's mercy, you shall see.
When night arrived, he stayed awake, his vigil he did keep,
Ignoring all who spoke to him, his sacred fast to reap.
He ate his Suhoor, then slept, and when the dawn did break,
His father kissed his forehead, for his sake.
"You cannot fast, my child, give up, your stubbornness release.
I'll offer you my fast, my son, and bid your fast to cease."
The boy replied, "I shall not eat, no morsel shall pass my lips.
What face could I then show to God, in shame upon my slips?"
As noon arrived, and shadows fell, the time of sorrow neared,
Without a drop, with thirst he suffered, his parched throat he feared.
His breath grew shallow, dizziness, a dizzying onslaught came,
A tender child, his life was frail, he fell, consumed by flame.
His heart beat slow, then ceased to beat, his eyes began to close,
His pulse grew still, his breath was gone, the end of life's repose.
His mother cried, "My innocent!" and he, he walked away,
Deprived of joy, the child was gone, to meet his final day.
His parents gazed upon his form, their precious, loving son,
A funeral bier, before them lay, the boy of eight years done.
Then came the time to break the fast, a bitter, painful test,
They ate and drank not, filled with grief, for their beloved's rest.
A beggar knocked upon their door, his voice a gentle call,
An angel stood, in beggar's guise, before them, standing tall.
He gave a plea, "Accept my prayers, for God's great, holy name,
I too am fasting, in His grace, and in His holy claim."
When they heard the beggar's words, this prayer for them he made,
The boy, the soul, was given up, and to the angel laid.
The beggar took the alms, then asked, "What sorrow has this brought?
What grief is in your hallowed home? This burden I have sought."
The angel led him to the house, and to the boy's remains,
He showed the child's small funeral, and spoke of life's refrains.
The angel, seeing the child's corpse, began to gently read,
He placed his hand upon his chest, and to the dead, he said:
"Oh little faster, break your fast, your trials now are done,
Your grieving mother stands nearby, speak now to her, my son."
His lips began to move, his eyes, they opened, shining bright,
The child alive, the mother wept, embraced him with all her might.
The angel, his eyes filled with tears, his spirit now at peace,
"I was sent by the Almighty, your trials now shall cease.
This was a test, a time of woe, a moment to be won,
Those who give their lives to God, their victory is begun.
Their victory is begun."
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