Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
If only it lasted—
that hour that slipped its clock,
when time grew shy of passing
and let us write forever
with the tremor of a breath.
In the forest,
where the river moved like a quiet verse
and frost baptized the trees in holy white,
beneath a giant trunk that called us—
me and my Emissary of Love—
we gathered warmth,
not from rain,
but from snow falling like cold letters
that knew nothing of our hearts.
No wind could part a pulse from its twin,
no ice could dim the ember of our closeness.
My eyes sank into hers,
reading the headline of a meeting
signed by fate;
her gaze returned
with arrows of longing
that never missed.
“Come closer,” she said—
and I did, slowly,
until the world narrowed
to the distance of two breaths.
Breath met breath;
soul recognized soul
before the body dared.
Desire flowed upon our lips
as burning honey;
we drank it, urgent,
tasting nectar—
and the promise of loss deferred.
Lashes clung,
knotted into vows
that refused release.
She drew me in—
not pain, but yearning—
held me as one who knows
absence waits behind the door.
At the mulberry’s root
the forest gathered us,
green arms extended to witness.
Grass danced to ululating winds;
thunder blessed our meeting;
lightning wrote our names
in the ledger of myth.
Ice dissolved into dew;
branches bloomed, ashamed by our fire.
Fruit fell—
cherry and grape—
yet the flavor held a secret
known only to our mouths.
Night stretched;
day rooted itself.
We became one body
that could not gather its words.
Each time I asked for leaving,
she asked for nectar.
Time stood, trembling,
before our flame.
Then the rooster cried,
dawn split like a blade,
and I whispered—regret choking my voice—:
If only… if only it had not become morning.
After the madness—
names fell away;
ardor stepped forward, naked but for light.
We were no longer lovers,
but two ideas fused
into a single pulse
no body could carry,
no hour could hold.
Breath turned to remembrance;
closeness to prayer without posture.
We watched creation
being rewritten—for us.
My ambassador of Love whispers:
Where are you now—
are you human, or djinn?
Do not answer.
I know you where names vanish
and only the trace remains.
You are what stays
when the mind grows weary
and rests in my heart.
You are the madness that did not ruin me,
but returned me to myself.
If they ask what you were, say:
a man who bore the light and did not flee.
If they ask where you went, say:
he dwelled in a woman
who knew that love
is a rare courage.
Then—
words withdrew, ashamed;
silence remained, sacred—
a window left ajar on eternity.
Here we stand:
not an ending,
but a hush
before which souls, passing,
bow.
