Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
O Morning—
how shall I receive you
when good morning
never crossed
the gate of her lips,
the ambassador of my love?
How does light rise
when its message is absent?
How does the heart awaken
while her voice
still hangs—
suspended
between longing
and silence?
O Morning,
slow your steps.
Lovers do not recognize day
unless they are called
by the smile
of those they love.
And how should I not burn,
when you mastered distance
as an executioner masters
the blade?
My only crime
was loving—
with an unarmed heart,
with a soul
that never learned
how to guard itself
against absence.
So you placed silence
where mercy should have been,
and walked away.
Do you know
what waiting means?
It is when time grows old
inside my eyes,
while you remain young
in my memory,
killing me with remembrance
without touching my blood.
Each time I swear
I will forget you,
the oath betrays me.
I return, broken,
to your name
as if it were
the last refuge
of a wound.
Why were you so cruel?
Was love more than you needed—
or was I less
than your pride could bear?
When you chose stubbornness,
it was no longer a trait—
it became an earthquake
that stripped things
of their names.
Night turned into day
from the violence of my sleeplessness.
Day turned into night
because you were gone,
and light abandoned light.
The river’s water turned salty
as it crossed my wounds.
The sea’s water turned sweet
because it wept
as I did.
The sun delayed its rising,
ashamed of my grief.
The moon rushed forward
to witness
that a heart, when broken,
overtakes time itself.
Hours began walking backward.
Life diminished
each time I added
more patience.
O your pride—
why did you sit
upon the throne of loss
and call it salvation?
You had one word.
One word
could have restored the balance.
You chose silence.
The world inverted.
Even prayer hesitated on its way upward,
uncertain—
should it ask guidance for you,
or rescue for me?
She speaks—
after pride grew weary
and stubbornness collapsed
at the feet of night:
“I was never stronger than you.
I was only weaker
than confession.
I mistook silence for dignity,
composure for victory,
not knowing
that by not returning
I was letting the universe tilt
and your heart fall apart.
I saw night become day
in your eyes,
and day extinguish its lamps
when I left—
yet, blindly stubborn,
I called it patience.
I had one word.
Just one.
I chose pride.
And I lost you—
and lost myself with you.
Forgive me for arriving late.
Confession does not reverse time,
but it does
undress the truth.”
Then—
she fell silent.
No voice followed.
Only rain,
descending slowly,
as if the sky
were washing away
what words could not cleanse.
As if silence
were the last remaining form of love—
and the truest.
