O seeker of the Unseen’s breath,
You ask of the Chosen One’s ﷺ essence—
the musk of his tread,
the dawn that clung to his shadow.
Look not beyond the Qur’an,
for it was not a verse he recited—
it was the rhythm of his pulse,
the marrow of his bones,
the ink of his existence.
Did he not embody:
\"Repel evil with what is fairer\" (Qur’an 41:34)?
At Tā’if, when stones tore his flesh,
his blood pooled like a prayer.
No wrath rose from his throat—
only grace for those who blinded themselves.
Mercy was his prophecy;
vengeance, a stranger.
Did he not manifest:
\"Lower your wing to the believers\" (Qur’an 15:88)?
He knelt to wipe the orphan’s tears,
swaddled the beggar in his own cloak,
met spite with a smile that split the dark.
His humility was a bridge—
even the broken crossed it.
Did he not incarnate:
\"Pardon them; seek forgiveness for them\" (Qur’an 3:159)?
When Makkah lay trembling at his feet,
he named no price for her scars.
“Unshackled,” he whispered—
and the ages still weep at the word.
O seeker, why wander distant shores?
‘Ā’isha (RA) spoke plain:
*“His character was the Qur’an.”*
To know him,
let your soul be a parchment
where the Divine Script rewrites itself.
For he was the Qur’an walking—
revelation made flesh,
mercy in motion.
NyKoul