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A Lonely House in the Steppe

A lonely house in the vast, open land,
With an old woman and a sick child at hand.
They are the heroes of this tale I weave,
To you, dear reader, their story I leave.
The sharp wind blows, driving rain on its flight,
With drops cutting down, stitching earth in the night.
In such white haze, as fate led him near,
Qusayin stepped into the house, filled with fear.
It was dark. He couldn’t see what was there,
As he entered the room, unaware of despair.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light’s glow,
And the shape of the room began to show.
First, he saw a baby, pure in its grace,
Glancing right, he noticed a figure in place.
An elder was kneeling, in prayer profound,
Had she just bowed down, her spirit unbound?
He knelt at the threshold, too shy to speak,
In this sacred moment, his heart felt so weak.
The essence of this lonely house held him tight,
With a power that filled the dim, endless night.
From the outside, it seemed humble and worn,
Yet inside, it stood like a fortress reborn.
As if an angel had placed them in peace,
Rooted to earth, where their worries might cease.
Inside, like a mosque, a haven of prayer,
Five times a day, they worshipped without care.
Qusayin sensed with a heart full of dread,
There lay a soul, in suffering and thread.
The infant stirred gently from its deep sleep,
While the old woman prayed, her vigil to keep.
So lost in her prayers, she didn’t turn round,
In devotion so deep, her spirit was bound.
Her focus so strong, in the duty to serve,
Whispering prayers, with each gentle curve.
Softly her lips moved, with murmurs that soared,
Echoing faith in the house they adored.
On her shoulders, a light, like clouds in the sky,
Wrapped in a warmth that could never say die.
Kneeling with grace, she offered her plea,
And long in her prayer, she found her decree.
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