Poeyry: Ashraf AboArafe
She reads my words in quiet grace,
yet leaves my longing without a sound;
and all my heart, in fragile pace,
still waits for echoes not yet found.
She reads… and though her lips are still,
a thousand meanings rise in me;
her silence bends my deepest will,
and sets my troubled spirit free.
For in her quiet, fire glows—
a tender flame, a gentle art;
her silence speaks of what she knows,
and writes its message on my heart.
How can my restless verses stand,
or steady lines remain sincere?
For every word she does not send
becomes a whisper I must hear.
And if she reads and does not speak,
my soul accepts its humble fate;
for love grows strongest when we seek,
and burn for what we cannot wait.
So if she asks me: “Why do your poems
fall trembling when I pass them by?”
I’ll say: “Because my heart becomes
a poem waiting for your reply.”
