Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
O seeker of glory lost in fading time,
Can light return once night has claimed its prime?
History is no ink on silent page—
It is a pulse, a living, breathing age.
From Amir Temur, empires took their flight,
In Samarkand, time gathered into light.
A sword—yet bent toward justice, not toward flame,
A mind that ruled with wisdom, not with name.
Nine parts counsel, one part war’s demand—
Thus rose a realm no chaos could withstand.
And Ulugh Beg—his stars still softly gleam,
A sky of knowledge born from scholar’s dream.
His observatory touched heaven’s face,
Mapping the cosmos with unmatched grace.
In sacred scripts where spirit shaped the line,
Not ornament—but truth in form divine.
And now—reborn, not buried in the past,
A living bridge where future meets the vast.
Within the Center—thought and faith unite,
A dome where time dissolves in endless light.
Read… for the rise begins with sacred word,
Where mind and soul together shall be heard.
For civilizations that endure with grace,
Outlive the ages… and reclaim their place.
