Description of the Beloved
The beloved is the center of the universe and holds paramount importance for the lover. Throughout history, many poets have celebrated her beauty, charm, and profound impact on the beloved’s life. Here, we present a collection of the most exquisite expressions dedicated to describing the beloved.
Exquisite Expressions Describing the Beloved
- My beloved, greetings to the spring on your face that stole the flutter of my heart and departed. When I write to you, I do not just write; I squeeze my heart and bestow upon you love and eloquence.
- He who possesses true love owns the most beautiful moments of existence. And he who holds your heart, my beloved, holds the world in its entirety.
- My beloved, you are the laughter of my bewildered heart; your cry shakes the universe. Anyone who hears your voice lives life in madness.
- My beloved, the words are beautiful, the lines are magnificent, and the meanings are vibrant, yet you remain enchanting. I constantly think of you; I forever dream of you.
- My beloved, you are unique; you resemble no one. You embody beauty, honesty, and joy in my life.
- Your eyes bewilder me; upon looking at you, I forget my identity and my whereabouts.
- My beloved, your kind heart is inherently pure and gentle. If I were given the choice of the universe, you would be the only one I choose.
Poetic Verses Describing the Beloved
Poem: “To Your Radiance, the Moonlight Apologizes”
This poem, “To Your Radiance, the Moonlight Apologizes,” is by Safi al-Din al-Hili, also known as Abdul Aziz bin Saraya bin Ali bin Abi al-Qasim al-Subasi al-Taghlibi. The poet was born and raised in Hillah, which lies between Kufa and Baghdad. He was also a merchant and traveled extensively to regions such as Syria, Egypt, and Mardin, before returning to Iraq.
To your radiance, the moonlight apologizes,
in your love, the lovers find consolation.
With the paradise of beauty anchored in your cheeks,
the flames of your love leave nothing behind nor spare.
Oh, you who sway with allure, where is the shade and the fruit,
for this branch is all that remains.
I did not believe that connection could be denied,
and that your promise is a lightning bolt that brings no rain.
I risked my most precious possession for you; I would offer it,
for on it rests the peril—as unthreatening as it may appear.
When I witnessed the darkness of your hair revealed,
I ventured into the dark, yet the moon fooled me.
Poem: “My Beloved Awakens from Her Sleep”
This poem, “My Beloved Awakens from Her Sleep,” is by Mahmoud Darwish, a contemporary Palestinian poet born in the village of al-Birwa in 1941. He was a revolutionary poet and a prominent figure in Palestinian resistance literature. His poetry is characterized by its lyrical style and eloquence. Among his notable collections are “Olive Leaves,” “Diary of a Palestinian Wound,” “My Beloved Awakens from Her Sleep,” and “Siege for the Praises of the Sea,” among many others that have enriched Arabic literature.
My beloved awakens from her sleep
Childhood takes, in her palm,
its adornments from everything…
And it does not grow with the wind; only memory
If the clouds they piled above
on the frame of the faded image,
it would amount to a week of pride,
and every year prior would be fallen
and borrowed from the vessel of the evening…
The day rolled over every door,
submissive to a busy world.
My fingers exhale: do not throw
the crumbs of my day to the long road,
a card of displacement in my grip,
an olive tree black,
and this homeland
is a gallows; I worship its blade
if they would sacrifice me; time shall not say,
I saw you!
The Relief Agency does not
inquire about the history of my death, nor
does it change the forest’s olive,
nor do the months drop their harvest!
Childhood takes in its palm,
its adornments from every day
and it does not grow with the wind, only memory.
And I remember her mirror
in the first days when her forehead donned
the lightning, but I
persecute the memory, for the evening
persecutes the heart at its door…
I gifted all my fingers
to the beam lost in her slumber;
and when she emerges from her dream,
my beloved, I know the path of the day
I carve the path of the day.
All women of pure language,
my beloved…
When spring arrives,
the rose is exiled on her chest
from every garden, longing for return,
and I remain lost within her body,
like the flavor of the earth that does not vanish.
All women of the bloodied language,
my beloved…
Her moons in the sky,
and the rose burnt upon her breast
with the desire of death, for the evening
is a bird in the cloak of victors.
And I still dwell in her mind, a variable
that evokes her during every death and life…
All women of the drowsy language,
my beloved
dream that the day
on the pavement of the coming night
drinks the shadow of night and the fracture
from the balcony of the soldier and the fallen woman.
She dreams that the borrowed giant
from our sleep is a perishing myth,
and that our cell has no walls,
and that the dream is clay and fire.
All women of the lost language,
my beloved…
I searched for her with my eyes,
yet I did not find her.
I found neither her greenness in the trees…
I searched for her in prisons
and found only fragments of the moon.
I searched through my skin…
I found neither her pulse,
nor did I find her in the roar of silence,
nor did I find her in the languages of people.
Beloved of all lilies and words,
why do you die before me
far from death and memories
and from my family’s house?…
Why do you die before the break of day
from the night…
before the fall of the wall?
Why?
For every occasion, there is a word…
But your death was a surprise to the speech
and a prize for exile
and a reward for the dark.
Where does one discover the word suitable
for the lightning lily?
I will invoke the sun to dismount
to drink me closely…
and reveal its secrets…
I will plead with night to release itself
from the burning dagger
and unveil its documents to the singer.
The details of those minutes
were…
the headlines of repeated deaths
and the names of those streets
were…
the wills of a prophet perishing.
But I came from last year’s corner
on a bridge…
Will you not open the windows of a new day
far from the graveyard?…
For our heroes, the singers chanted
and they were stones
and they wanted to pave
tiles for our squares
and silence, for silence is purification.
If the singers are crowded
it seems to us when we knock on the lover’s door
that the wall is a string
and it seems to us that it will not go away
except the night of death, from us
but we await
will you not leap from the alphabet
to us, will you not leap?
For after the nights of rain
our nation will begin to weep
for the hero of Qadisiyyah!
Drain the beats of your heart upon the eyelids
and bind my throat with the wind
if the sleepers grow numerous…
And from each night of all prisons
I scream:
Return to us her home
Return to us her silence
Return to us her death..
Your eyes, O my deity, are an exile
between the nights of glory and defeat.
Your eyelash scattered me in a moment
then returned me to discover the day.
Twenty knives upon my neck
yet my truth remains lost
and you came, O my deity,
for every dream
questions me about the return of the deities.
Have you seen the sun
one day?
I saw it wilted.. trivial
in the carts of captivity, we were, and did not
rain the sun upon us except drowsiness.
My beloved was kind when
she bade me farewell…
our songs were senses.
Your eyes, O my deity, are an exile
they exiled my dreams and my feasts
when we met within them!
Who will purchase the history of my ancestors?
Who will purchase the fire of the wounds that
melt my shackles?
Who will purchase the love between us?
Who will purchase our coming appointment?
Who will purchase my voice and my mirror?
Who will purchase the history of my ancestors
on the day of freedom?…
My deity! What does the echo say
what does the wind say to the valley?
Be kind,
be radiant, be worthy of the wings that
carry my children…
What is the color of her eyes?
The evening says:
Green, relaxed
on a mysterious autumn… like a song,
and the eyelash is the key
to what the heart wishes to hear.
Our songs were a debate there
on the wall of fire and the tempest.
Did we meet in all seasons?
We were young. And the withering
was our master.
Are we the grass of the fields?
Or are we two faces of yesterday?
The sun was quenching our shadow
and we did not leave the grip of the sun.
How did we confess the cross that
bears us at the square of light?
We did not speak
we did not confess
except with the words of nails!..
Your eyes, O my deity, are a return
from our lost death under siege
as if I were meeting you this evening
for the first time…
and between us
are only beginnings, and a river of blood
as if it did not wash the generations.
My legend falls from my grip
stones scratch the face of death
and the withered lily on my forehead
knows the atmosphere of the home..
Who dances tonight in the festival?
Our coming children?
Who remembers the forgetfulness?
Our children are coming
Who braids the sorrows
a crown of flowers on the forehead of time?
Our children are coming
Who adds sugar to the colors?
Our children are coming
And we, O my deity,
what role
do we take in the joy of the festival?
We die happily
in the light of the music
our children are coming!
Messages Describing the Beloved
Message One:
My beloved, like the sunrise when it arrives,
My beloved illuminates my paths,
reviving the spirit anew with my blossoms.
Bringing happiness effortlessly to my eyes,
Good morning to your radiant face,
to your spirit that comes lightly and departs carrying more of my heart.
Message Two:
My beloved, if I live to love you, my heart will never tire of you…
And if I live alone in a world, my world lies deep within your heart,
No matter how much I search for words, I will not find an adequate description for you and for your love.
Message Three:
I love you, my beloved;
I love you, my beautiful one;
You are my world and my beyond;
My beginning and my end;
I love you, O verse of beauty;
I love you, O exquisite creation of the Most Merciful;
O sweetest thing in the universe.