The body is for life but must die—
yet there is an exception: not all is linear.
There is a feminine who momentarily dies
upon her unique creation—only to revive
before her Most Able Creator.
For her, no more death on Earth.
She was there before the first matter—
it was in the making before her most beautiful eyes.
The first and foremost luminary feminine
moved heartily, panning flawless flow,
aligning into the finest angles of the first matter,
across the nadir to the zenith.
Fathima's gaze shows it a mirror,
as matter takes shapes and forms.
But for one feminine true masterpiece—
she stands without a mirror.
Arts on the go—Fathima moves on.
Praise be to her Lord, who made her to measure—
mathematically perfect by birth—
gave her the Pi.
(Pi tends to circle the blank space within — feminine—
while the circumference of the circle — masculine.)
She can budge equally in light and in shadow,
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer and into a whole full number!
For 'the All'—the absolute One, Allah—
time and again she steps up but finds no floor.
Her measured steps, by default, turn 360-degree circles,
scanning everything on the go—still finding no bottom.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him),
the first luminary masculine, looks into the open.
Fathima takes the veiled angle—
looking through the evermore pi-decimal micro-hole,
witnessing the first matter: a water-drop,
surfacing up without base or roof.
It follows—truly a copy of the original feminine,
softly springing around serene water paints
all the matters to be created from within it.
Pious Fathima withdraws,
veils her reflection in it.
Instills a fine chip with her hair lock, and plots in
conceptual design: countless conditional Boolean gates,
preventing intersection between two circles—
her original and its congruent first natural matter.
The cosmos has not yet forgotten—
it still follows suit.
First, a star was born, stepping into Fathima’s shoe.
It tried—so did the full set of galaxies—
only to disperse into profound constellations,
never finding the bottom.
Amidst this water circle floats the first clay soil—
Allah SWT called it His House,
the first creation from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimages around it at the core,
named the Ka'bah, rising up to the heart of the Earth.
Following the first masculine in the pre-design,
Fathima—the first feminine—
pilgrimaged around it,
not in the open,
but strictly under the patternless pi veil.
Nature is never uneven in the hand of the uneven pi;
every little fraction, every smallest decimal, counts—
connecting to the dot,
showing pattern or not.
Long live—the digital charisma is on the rise!
The sun rises and retraces back in the middle lane;
the black box scores at the end of the day—
it’s only a dark chart.
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary dip;
it pulls the seas—the mighty watermass—
yet the Earth cannot sync fully into the feminine water cycle,
save only one—
with Fathima, floating out of the box, beyond reach.
Like millions ever wonder—
where Fathima’s grave is:
the Earth strived, too, to the death-bite
to print her footprint—yet could not.
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
