Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
The Supreme Leader has been martyred…
The news arrived like a tremor in a heavy dawn,
like a wound in the flank of silence,
like a stone cast into still waters—
its ripples reaching distant shores.
He was martyred…
Yet the idea did not die.
The question did not bow.
An assassination is never a mere headline.
It is an earthquake striking the maps of a region,
unsettling the balance of the world.
Politically,
tension thickens,
dialogue narrows,
walls of suspicion rise between capitals.
When blood becomes a political instrument,
diplomacy retreats.
Economically,
markets tremble,
oil hesitates in its pipelines,
and global capitals recalculate risk.
Every bullet fired in the East
echoes across financial screens worldwide.
Socially,
anxiety slips into homes,
streets divide between fear and anger,
and words grow sharper than blades.
Culturally,
dialogue contracts,
alignment hardens,
as if civilization itself is being tested—
whether it can prevent darkness
from monopolizing the stage.
O night—
how long do you imagine yourself to be?
How long can shadows
confiscate the sunrise?
Those who planned in dark rooms,
those who endorsed from behind curtains,
and those who chose silence when silence was a stance—
will face the mirror of history.
Justice may be delayed,
but it is not erased.
O dawn of Cairo,
rise—even if after a while.
For the Nile knows
that no matter how long the night endures,
it passes.
And the sun
is never defeated.
The Supreme Leader has been martyred…
And the world now stands
before a profound moral test:
to uphold the rule of law—
or grow accustomed to the logic of assassination.
But dawn—
is coming.
