Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
It was not a rose—
it was a spark
slipping from your fingertips
into my chest—
The moment it touched my skin,
I ignited…
not a fire seen,
but a flame
dwelling in bone.
You carved it—
not as ornament,
but as destiny,
a mark that cannot fade…
Since then,
my heart is no longer a heart,
but a furnace—
whenever I remember you,
it glows,
whenever I long,
it burns deeper…
Your petals are not red—
they are embers,
each one falling inside me
igniting a thousand pulses,
a thousand tremors…
You said: “Good morning”
and morning exploded within me,
as if the sun
rose from between my ribs,
not from the sky…
And there—
in my deepest place—
where no sound lives but your breath,
and no light but your name—
the rose keeps burning,
and a golden heart
melts from the weight of love…
I swear—
I no longer know
whether I live by you…
or burn within you,
But I know this—
when you carved your rose,
you did not adorn my chest…
you claimed it in fire.
You—
my faith that cannot be explained,
my rose that resembles no other—
Whenever I call your name,
it blossoms within me
like destiny
written in fragrance and fire…
You are—
the very Rose,
not a word to be spoken,
but a fate to be lived.
Forgive me…
I could not restrain my feelings
when the rose intoxicated me—
So I began to feel—
without awareness—
and when I awoke,
I could not bear
to tear my poem apart…
Because it was not merely words—
it was…
the very Rose.
