Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
The silver gulls from northern chill depart,
To seek the Nile, warm cradle of the heart;
They flee the frost, through azure skies they glide,
And rest where Egypt’s golden waters bide.
O Nile of grace! thou pulse of Egypt’s soul,
From thy blue veins the streams of ages roll;
Within thy arms, a kingdom’s dream was born,
Its temples bathed in everlasting morn.
They tell of thee—a tale from ages old—
When maidens cast their hearts in waves of gold;
The Bride of Nile, in ritual soft and deep,
To guard the land, was offered to thy keep.
Thou art the meeting of the seas divine,
Where salt and sweetness in one flow combine;
Through every tide thy sacred whispers run,
Thou art the mirror of the moon and sun.
Proud Pharaoh spoke, enthroned in vain delight:
“Behold, these rivers flow beneath my might!”
But Heaven’s storm replied with thundering flame—
And in thy wrath, O Nile, his pride became.
Yet man forgets—the sons of Pharaoh’s line—
To keep thy waters pure, thy banks benign;
They wound thy heart with waste and careless hands,
Defiling what once blessed the holy lands.
From source to mouth, O Nile, dost thou forgive,
That we in folly drink, yet fail to live?
Each wave laments with music old and mild,
A poet’s grief, a river’s heart beguiled.
Thou art the symbol of all noble things,
Of lovers’ vows and poets’ whisperings;
No stream so pure, no flow so full of grace,
As thine, O Nile—time’s mirror, love’s embrace.
Flow, holy river, heart of ancient days,
Guard Egypt’s fields beneath thy gentle gaze;
Grant mercy, Nile, to those who know thee not,
And cleanse the hearts by selfish deeds forgot.
Flow through our veins, as love through ages ran,
Bind earth to heaven, water unto man;
O blessed tide, thy gift we can’t repay—
Thou art God’s whisper in the dust and clay.
Forever in our souls thy psalm shall shine,
Eternal Nile—beloved, pure, divine.
