Poem: Palestine in My Heart
Renowned poet Ma’in Bseiso expresses his sentiments:
O hands,
Lift away the shadows of chains from my green land,
And harvest the ears of grain from my people’s field.
I have not embraced the bread made from my homeland’s wheat
Since the winds brought heavy clouds of locusts
That have devoured my nation’s soil.
Since they forced me to snatch a morsel from a gazelle’s leg
While their hands filled up with sand.
They have usurped my bow, my arrows, and my spear
And plucked the flowers of my blood.
However, I continue to thrive,
For my roots challenge the axe on my homeland’s soil,
Which calls out in vibrant green:
O hands,
“Lift the shackles of locusts from my verdant earth,
And let my harvest, be my harvest.”
O Messenger of Allah, I Love You
Poet Abdul Aziz Guwaida articulates his deep love for the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him:
By Allah, from the depths of my heart,
I love you, O Messenger of Allah.
And love is not imposed
By any decree that has come;
My affection is not built on falsehood,
Nor on fleeting desires.
I have come into this world
A stranger,
For we are all strangers,
Longing souls thirsting
For the wellspring of water.
The universe was suffering,
And there was no hope for any cure.
Before you, the world was drifting
Like a limping duck.
You came as a healer,
Diagnosing the ailments of hearts.
For you are the soothing balm,
Providing every remedy.
And even if all people were equal,
You stand as the exception.
There is none before you or after you,
Nor anyone to compare with you
From eternity…
Moral Values Grow Like Plants
Poet Marouf Al-Rasafi reflects on ethics:
Moral values grow like plants,
If nourished with the waters of virtue.
They flourish under the care of the nurturing,
On the stalk of virtue, bearing fruit.
They rise towards honor in harmony,
As the tubes of the canal align.
They revive the essence of glory,
With blossoms that are sweetly fragrant.
And I have not seen in creation any place,
That cultivates it like a mother’s embrace.
For a mother’s embrace is a school that elevates,
Through the upbringing of sons and daughters.
And the ethics of a child are measured beautifully,
By the virtues of the mothers.
Not every child raised with high qualities,
Is like a child raised with lowly traits.
And just like a plant does not grow in a garden,
So is a plant that grows in the wilderness.
So, O nurturing breast, generous in embrace,
You are the sanctuary of the finest feelings.
When you cradle a child, it is like a board,
Surpassing all the boards of life.
When the infant leans on you, it reveals
The images of affection portrayed.
The morals of childhood reflect in you,
As the image reflects in a mirror.
What has struck your heart is merely a lesson
To instill in him admirable qualities.
The first lesson in refining character
Is found in you, O nurturing breast.
How can we expect goodness from offspring,
If they grow up in the embrace of ignorance?
And can perfection be hoped for in children,
If they suckle from the teats of inadequacy?
What is it with mothers who know nothing
Bringing forth all the folly of stones?
Were we to complain to you, O mother of believers,
About our plight from the ignorance of the faithful.
For this is a calamity, O mother, from which
“We are choking on the waters of the Euphrates.”
They adopted customs as their religion,
Thus afflicting Muslim women.
They led them down a path of ruin,
Shutting them away from the paths of life.
Until they became confined to the depths of their homes,
Reduced to mere tools.
And they deemed them weaker than a fly,
Without wings and lesser than a spark.
They said that Islamic law dictates,
To favor “those over women.”
And they claimed that knowledge is something,
That constricts the hearts of graceful women.
And they said that the ignorant are purer,
In avoiding vice than the educated.
They have lied about Islam outrageously,
To the extent that even the sun can quake because of it.
My Beloved: A Poem by Nizar Qabbani
My beloved, if they ask you about me one day,
Do not think too much,
Say to them with all pride,
((… he loves me… he loves me a lot.))
My little one, if they reproach you one day,
For how you cut your silken hair,
And how you shattered a fine vessel,
After raising it for months,
Like summer in my land,
Spreading shade and perfume.
Tell them: I cut my hair,
… because the one I love loves it short.
My princess, if we danced together
On candlelight to our beloved melody,
And around us were expressions of joy,
Our existence like rays and light,
And everyone thought in my embrace,
A butterfly longing to fly,
Continue your dance in tranquility,
… and make my ribs your bed.
And say with all pride:
((… he loves me… he loves me a lot.))
My beloved, if they inform you that I
Do not possess slaves or palaces,
And that I have no diamond necklace
With which to adorn your delicate neck,
Tell them with all your might,
O my first and last love,
Say to them: … I am content
… because he loves me a lot.
My beloved, O thousands of my beloved,
My love for your eyes is immense,
… and it will always remain immense.