Echoes of the Prayer Hall

In quiet place where sandals rest,
 Beneath the moon, the hearts confess.
 A sacred light, so humbly cast,
 Where time moves slow, yet teachings last.

The call to dawn, a soft embrace,
 Young voices rise in gentle grace.
 Pages turned with reverent hands,
 Upon this ground, the spirit stands.

No gold nor throne, but greater still — 
 The soul is shaped, the restless stilled.
 A world within these modest walls,
 Where silence speaks and ego falls.

The ustadz guides with steady flame,
 Not seeking praise, not chasing fame.
 But planting seeds in eager minds,
 To grow in truth, through ties that bind.

The nights are long, but filled with prayer,
 A thousand hopes hang in the air.
 Each whispered verse, a step begun,
 To seek the light beyond the sun.

Oh pesantren, the humble gate,
 Where youth are taught to trust their fate.
 Not just in books or ritual song,
 But how to choose between right and wrong.