Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
How can the morning rise in grace
unless your lips release the blessing, “Good morning”?
And how can evening settle softly
unless your whisper folds the dusk in “Good evening”?
How may the air become a gentle breeze,
unperfumed by the nectar of your breath?
And how shall shadows keep their poise
when your figure bends the light
yet withholds the tender kiss
that calms a longing heart?
How shall roses bloom in their gardens
if your smile denies them the secret of dew?
How shall clouds rain yearning
without borrowing the hush of sorrow from your lashes?
And how shall the sea grow tranquil at the fall of tide
if you refuse it a glance of quiet approval?
How can the stars ignite their lanterns
unless your spirit nears their night
with the devotion of a prayer?
How will mountains guard their dignity
when you pass beside them—
they rise to rival your majesty, then shy away?
And how can birds perfect their songs
if the wind does not carry your name
across the breadth of heaven?
How may the seasons take their turns
unless you choose the colour of autumn,
the flavour of winter,
and the tenderness of spring?
And how can the universe remain a universe
if you, for one brief hour,
forsake its orbit?
How can this heart stay whole
when you pass through it
like fire through the dry and waiting earth?
How can my veins lie still
when your hidden flame awakens them,
and the blood stirs upward—
yearning
until it reaches your name?
How might I flee from you
when you dwell inside me—
nearer than breath,
farther than anything mortals may grasp?
Are you a tenderness in which existence melts,
or the sovereign might of an ambassador
who rules a single lover
with the decree of queens,
claiming his soul
as though it were the spoils of a destiny
none can escape?
Tell me—how shall I hide,
when my spirit stands revealed
whenever you call it,
and my very pulse ignites
at the nearness of your hands?
What are you?
A magic kept for prophets?
Or a fate that inscribed my heart
the moment you were born?
And if you ask me, “How?”
I answer—
there is no refuge from this truth:
With a single glance from you, longing is created…
and with your absence—
the world itself begins to die within me.
