Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Taghreed of beauty, in a hallowed shrine,
Her voice ascends, like morning’s hymn divine.
She came rebellious, like a restless mare,
Crying aloud, as though the stars were there.
They said, “She weeps”—but wisdom softly smiled,
“She sings,” he answered, “music in the child.”
So named for song, her soul became a lute,
Where every tone is tender, pure, and absolute.
Her eyes—two gardens where the jasmine lies,
Her lips—a chalice brimming with sunrise.
Her hair, a river flowing dark and free,
A night that whispers secrets to the sea.
Her face, a dawn where every sorrow dies,
A moon that blooms across the velvet skies.
O Taghreed, muse of beauty, timeless flame,
The world shall never cease to sing your name.
