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In the grave, alone and cold, he lay, Night wrapped tight, as life slipped away. Two angels come, with voices stern, And his heart, with fear, begins to burn. “Who is your Lord?” they firmly speak, His voice is faint, his soul feels weak. He lived for wealth, for fame and pride— Now silence screams what he can't hide. “What is your faith?” they ask again, He struggles, lost, his answers thin. The world had called, and he’d obeyed, But faith, he’d tossed like morning shade. Then, “Who’s your Prophet?” the last demand, He cannot speak, he cannot stand. Regrets flood fast, too late to mend, The life he chose now meets its end. Hell’s fires loom, he feels their heat, While Heaven fades, a lost heartbeat. If only he’d prayed, if only he’d tried, Now sorrow drowns him like a tide. A plea for mercy fills his chest, Too late he learns where hearts find rest. For this is truth, so clear, so near— Return to Allah, hold Him dear.