Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Did you not know the voice of press, so clear,
Beats with the truth both far and near?
A flame that lends your halls their guiding light,
A tongue that speaks when silence veils the night.
Yet when by reckless hands it’s cast aside,
Your image fades, your honor is denied.
You guard the body with a zealous care,
But scorn the soul of men, as if it were not there.
Is this the wage for journalism’s vow,
To watch your steps and pen the truth somehow?
You raise the banner of a mercy sent,
Then mock its spirit, stripped of firm intent.
If in your ranks a wrongdoer takes her place,
Then justice must reveal her mask, her face.
Who shall restrain the tyrant, curb the fall,
If not your hand that dares to judge for all?
Woe to the house of health, if it should hide,
The shameless one who spreads her spite with pride.
Disgrace it is, when shadows dark remain,
While truth lies trampled, silenced by disdain.
Restore the pledge, let honor shine anew,
Grant press its sanctity, its rightful due.
Without the voice of ink, your flags decay,
And health’s bright banner withers into gray.
