Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Amr Moussa walks
carrying no paper briefcase,
but a map drawn from Arab pulse—
split between destinies and revolutions,
between cities praying for salvation
and others crucified on the walls of silence.
From Cairo,
he spoke in a voice that refused to kneel.
He said “No” at a time when “Yes” was a passport.
In JERUSALEM,
he neither concealed the wound nor bargained over it.
He declared: no peace without Palestine, and no dignity deferred.
In NEGOTIATION halls,
where power is measured by interests,
he faced the room and said:
We are not strangers in our homelands—
you made us strangers in the language of peace.
In BAGHDAD,
when the sky turned into fire,
he rejected Iraq as an experiment
and insisted that nations are not built with half a memory.
In New York,
where veto outweighs human tears,
he entered as a witness for justice, not a procedural speaker.
In EUROPE,
he carried Egypt not in a passport,
but in a tone that knows nations are not represented by whispers.
He does not write poetry,
yet he left memory
a position that does not age,
and history a text that keeps walking.
