Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
For those who plant thorns
in the side of kinship
then wonder
why the house bleeds.
For those who answer nobility
with cold disgrace,
as if honor
were a disease
the honorable must cure.
For those who believed
that wealth alone
could forge glory,
forgetting that Qarun
was richer than them all
when the earth swallowed him.
For those who raise their heads
above others
through temporary positions,
forgetting
that the wind
has toppled crowns of kings.
For those who make discord
a daily craft
and gossip
a road
to the ruin of hearts.
They do not know
that mockery and slander
are not strength,
but the crutch of the weak
when their shoulders
cannot carry honor.
O you swollen with money…
Gold
does not raise
the stature of dwarfs.
Palaces
do not create men.
Wealth
cannot wash away
the shame of baseness.
Many rich men
entered history
as a handful of ridicule,
while many poor souls
entered hearts
as kings.
Those who sold kinship
in the markets of greed
and replaced the warmth of blood
with the coldness of calculation.
Those who believe deception
is intelligence,
stabbing backs
is courage,
and igniting strife
an art of life.
Those who measure people
by the weight of coins—
when pockets grow heavy,
conscience grows light.
Remember…
A man is not measured
by what he owns,
but by what he leaves
in the hearts of people.
Plant thorns if you wish…
But remember:
When the field fills with thorns,
its owner
will find no place
to walk
barefoot with a clear conscience.
For thorns
do not wound feet alone…
They expose
the hearts
of those who planted them.
