Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
When hearts are pure and souls in peace abide,
A noble friend becomes thy lamp and guide.
He greets thee warm with kindness in his tone,
And turns thy spirit from the Devil’s throne.
He wakes thy heart when heedless thou mayst stray,
And lifts thy grief with words as soft as day.
His presence calms, his counsel gently flows,
A garden blooms wherever his spirit goes.
He brings thee light no clock or age can bind,
And plants assurance deep within thy mind.
Like stars that fade yet leave their silver flame,
His memory lives when none recall his name.
He sees with hearts, not eyes by dust confined,
And pardons souls though erring and maligned.
He loves thee not for wealth nor worldly part,
But for the peace that blossoms in thy heart.
His speech descends like Scripture softly read,
Each word a balm where wounded hopes have bled.
If he invites thee forth to paths of right,
Thou follow’st him — thy lamp through life’s long night.
But shun the friend whose smile is serpent-born,
Whose praise is honey veiled with secret scorn.
He gives thee sweetness from his cunning tongue,
Then flees like rats when bell of truth is rung.
He dances joy in others’ eyes for show,
Yet plants beneath thy path the thorns of woe.
He claims to bind yet severs heart from heart,
His link is falsehood, masked by artful art.
What speaks his lips is not what dwells within,
For smiles may cloak deceit and inward sin.
In times of trial, oil he pours on flame,
And finds delight as demons do — in blame.
His tongue bleeds gossip, slander, spiteful song,
He wounds the good, and glorifies the wrong.
Feigning advice, he stabs with gentle air,
And makes the soul his victim unaware.
O friend, choose well the souls that walk with thee,
Wilt ride with musk, or breathe the blacksmith’s sea?
For one gives fragrance, peace, and angel’s breath,
The other burns the bloom and leads to death.
The bearer of musk—his presence harms thee not,
He fills the world with light where’er he’s sought.
But he who blows the bellows — flee his flame,
He scorches dreams and darkens virtue’s name.
So choose thy circle, where thy heart grows higher,
Not where it fades in smoke and lost desire.
For every gathering’s worth is weighed entire,
By musk of souls — or cinders of the fire.
