The Poet’s Contemplation
The poet Qassem Haddad reflects:
As the scholar leaned over his book, he asked, “Where should I begin? Every time I confront a sin, a name resurfaces. Do you desire the countryside as your eternal paradise? Perhaps hell compensates the slain. You look towards the margins, seeking refuge in ink as evening trees embrace the twilight. Where do I start? The text does not permit me to borrow the words necessary to conceal you; not even in the allure of wine—what a delusion! The scholar leaned toward me. I noticed crows orbiting the fields as though proclaiming: “He did not heed the scholar’s words”. A detached hand from the source of the fatwa reached out, its essence intertwined with a smothering fear, while a pillow was laden with loss and betrayal. Had the scholar spoken to him, the birds could have carried his messages, transforming the verses and interpretations into the framework of his deeds. All rewards are tracked by guillotines pursuing him. He wept upon realizing this, returning to recite the ancient Surah of Al-Kahf. The scholar, shaken with dread, grasped only the lament of a slain lover when oblivion fell upon him, feeling no more deaths than his own. If the scholar had turned to me, he would have confessed, “I have not felt death; I am the lonely individual without a beloved.”
Ode of Sorrow
The poet Elia Abu Madi expresses:
I cried, yet the tears were embered,
And soon enough, I wept from my very soul.
For on the eternal estate of morals, Mustafa laid to rest;
His virtue and youth now mourned by all.
Such was the gravity of the tragic event
That the world trembled and shivered in fear.
Hearts melted with despair’s deluge,
Indeed, the greatest scribe in Egypt has now departed.
He left behind profound sorrow woven into hearts;
If only there were more like him among men,
This calamity would have been lighter to bear,
And if lives could be sacrificed to ward off demise.
Each noble spirit would offer itself to protect him;
A youth whose prime slipped away without knowing transgression,
And who held not in his heart a trace of dubious love.
A brave soul, gallant and unwavering,
Who sought naught but the cost of noble lives,
And thus willingly yielded his essence to fate.
Peace to you, oh Egypt, lamenting in his absence;
For there lies buried your hopes within a grave.
Your eloquent speaker, the rightful guardian of the Nile,
Was known for delivering sermons that drew the audience near,
Necks craned high to heed his every word.
Were you to lend some fragment of his wisdom,
Indeed, but for death, would you have alleviated our plight.
Alas, amidst the grief of loss,
Our hearts shattered as your demise struck all.
No mother ever mourned a solitary child,
With a sorrow more profound than mine for you, beloved.
Egypt now calls out to you, the finest traveler,
And the best hope we ever had to shield from calamity.
I beheld you, steadfast against any call save this one:
Your essence would remain a quilt of yearning.
For, if hearts could brim with love,
Then surely, you were fashioned to embody love.
Rest easy, as your people have received their share.
For countless have fallen asleep while you remained vigilant;
History will enshrine your memory endlessly.
You were indeed the finest among humankind in the best of nations,
May a thousand salutations come to you from the Most Merciful.
And from our land, Egypt, a thousand thousand greetings!
The Verse of Destruction
The poet Ahmed Matar asserts:
Do not stray; the world around you has deserted you.
Do not let your hidden intentions surface; guard closely your soul.
This desert has ceased to be a sanctuary,
Now it’s a cage in its overarching emptiness.
Surrounded by a thousand vessels,
And upon its breath, a million birds lie in wait,
Watching both the manifest and the secrets buried in hearts.
At the city gate stood fifty dancers,
As orders dictate, drumming and singing:
“You are mad and enchanting!”
Do not wander; where will you go? Your camel is known,
Your descriptions are recorded in every watchtower.
The winds race forth; upon the sands, commands await
To follow you, lifting hoofprints from the earth.
Step gently; the land bears the weight of these soldiers.
Do not wander; suppress your faith, for faith incurs their wrath.
Do not claim to be enlightened or a poet,
Return; poetry breeds obscenity and wounds the spirit.
You are unlearned; thus, do not read, nor inscribe,
Nor hold a pen or notebooks, lest they imprison you,
And no publisher shall print your verses.
Walk if you must, alone, but do not inquire where men are,
For all your friends are under lock and key.
The one who once shared your shelter is a scheming enigma,
And your companion is a spy, a traitor to your cause.
And those who once burned upon the sands in the name of God—
All deemed infidels, remorseful without compulsion.
Their names are elevated within the records,
Their bodies now rest beneath the gallows.
Proceed if you wish, yet know you are fated to die,
Should you spot a cave, do not traverse its threshold.
That cave is a snare that disappears when you evade it,
Be wary of mines disguised as doves,
Or a recording device veiled as a spider’s web,
Ready to catch words, even in silence.
Keep your distance; do not enter, or you may perish
Before knights of the clans can seize you.
Do not stray; mount the camel, load it with a thousand tons,
Stand firm, and recite the verse of destruction atop the idol,
For they have opted for peace; steer towards ammunition,
To restore the exiled home, victorious back to the land.
In Upon My Tearful Eyes
The poet Bilbil Al-Hayran Al-Hajari laments:
Upon the tears of my eyes for your absence resides a watcher,
As long as the eyelids do not lend any healing to it.
I sacrificed the realm of patience after you departed,
Within it lay the abode filled with yearning for you.
Your essence now embodies an intense longing for my gaze,
So I bow in reverence, as if you were present.
Then I fold my wings over the fervor of love,
While pretending to be entirely focused and patient.
I am astonished by one who venerates the fire,
With your cheek untouched by its warmth, though he is an infidel.
And how curious is it that your eye heralds,
Believing in his signs while he is a sorcerer.
Oh woe to my kin; lover’s blood has spilled,
So is there no avenger for a slain one among lovesick eyes?
And since they informed me of a stem that stands tall,
I am certain that the heart within me is a bird.
It pleases my sight to see its stream overflow,
If only the strands of night would cascade down like so.
And that smooth cheek cannot sprout greens,
Save for the multitude of distresses that plagued it.
Left My Beloved Heart Not Out of Boredom
I left my beloved heart not for ennui,
But for a fault that led to our separation:
I see a rival in companionship between us,
And my heart’s belief sways not to separation:
You occupied yourselves with the company of others,
And displayed abandonment in ways we had not shown.
I shall depart from the place where you once left,
And bear your absence, just as you have borne mine.
While I busy myself with distractions, as you did with others,
And let the distance between us be your doing, not mine.
Where Is My Heart… Has It Disappeared In The Crowd?
Where is my heart… has it become lost among the throng?
Or has the raindrop’s touch drowned it in sorrow?
I shall bend down… searching for it beneath the feet of humanity,
This is who I am; a fragile soul among the masses.
Overwhelmed by emotions, love renders me weeping,
I shall call out to you, my heart, from the depths of darkness.
In the sad tear,
In the migrant bird en route to the land of dreams,
You shall find me calling out to you… forgive me.
Do not blame my strings if they play melodies after your departure,
For I am, as you see, a lone note among many strings.
The journey chases after me, and the specter of fear follows me,
And my spirit struggles against time.
What have you done to wound me so deeply with arrows?
How Hard It Is To Weep Without Tears
How hard it is to weep without tears,
And how difficult to leave without looking back.
It is so hard to feel confined,
As if space around you is diminishing.
How hard it is to speak without a voice,
To live only to await death.
How hard it is to feel ennui,
Witnessing everyone around you fade into nothingness.
And that feeling of regret overwhelms you,
For a sin unknown and a guilt unconfessed.
How hard it is to feel profound sorrow,
As if an ancient pain lies dormant within.
Continuing alone down this path,
Without a purpose, without a partner, without a friend,
You find yourself, grief and regret forming a new alliance,
And you discover your face drowning in tears.