Ashraf AboArafe
She is—
not a woman who merely passes through a life,
but a lifetime embodied in a woman,
a meaning that took form
until it became a face,
a name,
a pulse that cannot be denied.
When she arrives,
time halts—out of reverence.
When she smiles,
time rearranges its beats
to the rhythm of her heart,
as though asking her permission
to proceed.
In her eyes,
chaos finds rest,
anxiety learns the language of calm,
and questions grow shy
from the abundance of answers.
As if God
condensed the wisdom of Eve
into a single glance,
and stilled the world with it.
My ambassador of love—
she carried no passport,
yet carried my heart
from the shores of wandering
to the harbors of certainty,
and taught me that arrival
is not a step,
but a companionship.
At that gathering—
which borrowed its luster from my ambassador—
a round table called to us,
as if destiny had answered our wish.
Together we sat—
yes, corners of the table stood between us,
yet a single compass gathered us whole.
The table laughed with joy,
then wept
when my ambassador of love
departed from it.
She is woman at her fullness:
modesty that does not weaken,
strength that does not harden,
wisdom that does not boast,
beauty that does not shout.
The summit of her beauty
dwells in her shyness—
it appears,
and everything else falls silent.
When she walks,
meanings bow
to clear her path.
When she speaks,
noise resigns
in embarrassment around her.
She is the companion of the road—
not the one who holds a hand alone,
but the one who holds a lifetime
so it does not fall,
and pats the soul
when it grows weary of strength.
I loved her
because she was not a promise,
but a loyalty that preceded the question.
Because when she came,
she did not change me—
she returned me to myself:
truer,
calmer,
more grateful
to time
that turned—
only to stop at her.
O ambassador of my love,
O wheel of my days,
turn as you wish—
I have chosen
to arrive with you,
neither before you
nor after you.
Thus,
I no longer search for the road,
so long as Eve
has become my compass.
I asked her,
“Shall I sing my poetry?”
She said, “No… not here.”
So I said—my heart in my hand:
Then I shall sing to the whole universe,
and the birds will sing with me,
and humankind,
and the leaves of plants,
and all that has ever breathed love.
If the place cannot contain us,
the voice will.
If the world narrows,
the universe will widen
for my song—
and for her name.
