Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
The moan of the abandoned bed flows … through the veins of my poetry, yet all it holds
Is the dryness of the inkwell; after you, my life withered … and the scorching wind of my breath dried up the branch.
Upon the paper of longing, I drew my silence … as cracks in the parched soil of the soul.
So why does the letter stumble when you are far? … And why is the heartbeat burdened with all its knowing?
Yet, since you departed, I wept in loss … I, the pen that never once ran dry
In singing of this grand love, nor did I surrender … until my dark ink bled like tears, and my stars went dark.
O my beloved, O the depth of my sea … O my abundant inkwell—be generous!
For the thirsty writer is weeping … and my papers suffer from an endless sleeplessness.
When shall we meet? The minutes of our love have grown old … and a paralysis has struck the tips of the quill.
We yearn for our promised embrace one day … so our covenant may bloom, and its clouds may clear away.
When will you pour your spilled love into my veins? … So that I may write a line upon the forehead of the sun:
“That love shall never perish when … the two bleeding souls meet, and my paradise returns to me.”
