Poems about the Morning

The Poetry of This Morning: The Morning of Grayness Has Appeared

The poet Ibn Zamrak expresses his thoughts about the morning:

This morning, the morning of grayness has dawned,

A night that quickly became day, brightening its light.

Time has two hues, one of light and the other of darkness,

Each punishing the other as they depart.

And that color is a bitter mark upon its offspring,

When the expanse of time widens and opens up.

One cannot deny the light that dispels the darkness,

Unless one’s desires have no room to settle.

When you see the sparks of grayness smiling,

On the hairline, the countenance of life darkens.

One faces grayness with reverence and honor,

If he has prepared deeds that are righteous.

As for me, I have not ceased to be haunted,

By the gentle breeze whenever it blows.

And whenever the lightning shines in the darkness with a smile,

From across the hill, it just brings tears flowing.

What does grayness have to do with surveillance,

After I was reproached regarding matters of passion?

My loyalty resists listening to the leaders,

And to obey my critic, whether it is deceit or sincere advice.

O people of Najd, may the rain grace your lands,

A torrent that quenches the yearning for the soil.

What of the heart when the southern winds blow,

Guiding it with breaths of longing and sorrow?

How lovely is a breeze from your land that has blown,

And how delightful a breeze from your skies that has passed!

O neighbors who know the generosity of the living,

It does not harm one who withholds goodness, if only he would let it flow.

Whenever a sparkle appears in the gloomy skies,

My heart ignites, fueled by the flame of longing.

In the care of God lies my heart, lamenting,

Each time I draw near, I find that distance has shifted.

How many nights have frightened the shadows,

Of a cowardly heart that does not cease to be cast away.

I traveled with the stars above,

They adorned the night with jewels, while the tides of darkness overflowed.

With a bright sail, I guide myself at night,

While the full moon has sailed in the depths of the dark waters.

And the clouds scatter the tears of precious pearls,

The air shakes from the lightning, illuminating the gloom.

My ambition has not requested anything from time,

Except a proposal from the days to arise.

And I have not poured the cups of resolve in despair,

Except I have poured the cups of pride in the brightened dawn.

Poetry: I Opened My Window to the Morning Sun

Salah Jahin expresses his sentiments:

I opened my window to the morning sun,

Yet only the wailing of the winds entered.

And I opened my heart to speak of the pain,

But nothing emerged except love and forgiveness.

New Morning Poetry

Abu Al-Qasim Al-Shabi articulates:

O Wound, dwell with me,

And hush, O Sorrow!

The era of lament has passed,

And the times of madness are over.

The morning has revealed itself,

Emerging from behind the centuries.

In the pathways of ruin,

I have buried my pain,

And scattered my tears,

To the winds of oblivion.

I have chosen life

As an instrument for melody,

I sing upon it

In the expanses of time.

I have melted sadness,

In the beauty of existence,

And made my heart

An oasis for song.

For light and shadows,

Fragrance and flowers,

And love and youth,

And hope and tenderness.

Dwell with me, O Wound,

And hush, O Sorrow!

The era of lament has come to an end,

And the time of madness is past.

The morning has arisen,

Emerging from behind the centuries.

In my spacious heart,

A temple of beauty,

Constructed by life,

With visions and imagination.

I have recited prayers

In reverent shadows,

And burned incense,

And lit candles.

For the enchantment of life

Is eternal and unyielding.

Why should I complain

Of the obscurity surrounding me?

Then comes the morning,

And the seasons pass…?

A spring will come,

If spring passes.

O Wound, stay with me,

And hush, O Sorrow!

The era of lament has passed,

And the times of madness are gone.

The morning has dawned,

From beyond the epochs.

From beyond darkness,

And the sound of the waters,

The morning has called me,

And the spring of life.

What a beautiful invocation,

That has shaken the echoes of my heart!

I no longer have a stay,

Above this land.

Farewell! Farewell!

O mountains of grief,

O fog of sorrow!

O pathways of hell,

My boat has sailed,

Into the great abyss,

And I unfurled the sail;

Farewell! Farewell!

The Morning Rose Upon Your Lips

Ayman Al-Labadi conveys:

The morning rose upon your lips,

And crafted its sole phrase.

It bloomed,

No night devours the tranquility,

No thorns tear down the walls,

No monster fabricates the siege.

No doubt sprawls across the boundaries,

As steeds gallop free,

And blossomed radiantly in your hands.

The morning rose upon your lips,

The morning rose upon your lips.

Let it end in defeat if it stoops at last,

And cast aside the unification of the frame,

Take from time a guiding light,

With its brightness since the very beginning.

The lips of the wounded speak of inquiry,

And the warmth of love accompanies you.

The morning rose upon your lips,

Does longing exhaust the meeting if it stumbles in orbit?

And if it settles from absence onto the veil?

And if it persists in solitude,

Like an entangled wound?

From a voyage among the seagulls, it was merely a wink,

And an endeavor during the phases.

It was, after all, the tale,

And the introduction written in your blood.

The morning rose upon your lips,

The morning rose upon your lips.

Do not remain silent out of fear of the spill,

Nor tear apart in the mirrors what has rested in delusions.

Entry is merely a burning wound,

So when you deny what breathes behind the veil,

Remember that the answer, if prolonged,

Is but a part of an anxious question.

The morning rose upon your lips,

The morning rose upon your lips,

O sole sea,

Since the shores sought no end,

Your arrival to me is a sign.

What undid you?

There is no deception in light,

So rest as you tread upon what has been violated.

The morning rose upon your lips,

The morning rose upon your lips,

Keep him where he desired, lit with insanity,

And provoked to laughter.

More miserable than languid love,

Stones in memory,

Leave them present;

They are the flash of unique love,

And an unyielding orchestra of enchantment,

And a courtyard of gentle steps

With whatever was at hand of devoted fidelity.

The morning rose upon your lips,

The morning rose upon your lips,

And what stirred in his depths was none but the kindness of your hand.

O sanctuary of noble spirit,

How often I love you anew,

Each time the words grow old,

The wondrous glow rekindles,

And begins to crawl anew in your sky,

If it provokes the embellished spring at the leap,

Carrying the rites of obligation

And blooming not desiring fire except in your temple.

Now I declare what I am certain of,

What remains firm,

What has settled upon the vein:

Indeed, I love you anew,

The morning rose upon your lips.

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