A solitary chamber, compact and soundless. Into it the shroud shall be placed, a white cloth it's only cover. Fear engulfs it, but no one shall hear its cry. Except for the animals, shuddering at the noise.
Family and friends, whisked away by life itself. Nothing left, except its deeds and prayers. If it led a peaceful life, it shall taste the fruits of its labour. But if it led a wasteful life, it is in grave danger.
The Angels shall then come, and question Who is your Lord? What is your religion? Who is your prophet?
If the answers are right, the faithful soul shall lay in utter bliss, Its place in Paradise well assured. But if they are wrong, the torment shall begin. The soul wishing for another chance. The tormented souls only hope,
Being the prayers of his kin. Else, it shall remain unchanged, 'Til the day the trumpet sounds a second time.
For the pens have been lifted, And the ink, dried.
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