Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Whenever I sat beside her,
a flood of confessions surprised me,
stars of untold stories sparkled in her eyes,
and from the fragrance of her breath
rose the enchantment of motherhood—
awakening in my soul
the notebooks of childhood
and the whispers of twilight.
She was a willow tree, sheltering my wounds,
a trunk where my dreams leaned and rested,
stretching from her heart’s branches
a peace that never aged,
a tenderness that never ran dry.
She raised me on the light of patience,
taught me that a smile is a weapon,
a tear is a prayer,
and that the road, however long,
is carried by the feet
when the heart carries it first.
She knew my hunger before I spoke,
she saw my shivers before I trembled,
she outran the beats of my heart to my pain,
binding the wound
before anyone else could see it.
And when the years betrayed her strength,
and her body yielded to time,
her eyes still hastened toward me in prayer—
as if in every glance she was bidding farewell,
weaving for me, thread by thread,
a final safety from her soul.
She departed…
but the shade of the willow never left,
the scent of mulberries lingers in memory,
and whenever I close my eyes,
I sit beside her once again.
She smiles, she speaks… then we fall silent—
and in that silence
there is joy,
and in that memory
there is life.
