Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
On the twenty-second of April,
when spring walked in gentle shyness,
and the sun hung like a warm orange
over the shoulders of the fields…
you were born—
not as a number in a record,
but as a story destined to be told.
And on the ninth of Dhu al-Hijjah, 1383 AH,
when souls rose lightly toward forgiveness,
and prayers opened the gates of heaven…
you came—
as if you were the answer to a prayer
your mother had long hidden in her heart.
In Bandar Belbeis,
where words carry the taste of authenticity,
where “Bandar” is not a title
but a medal from a time that never ages,
you entered the world
carrying the scent of earth,
with a tiny step
your mother saw as…
a whole universe in motion.
And today,
on your birthday,
greetings do not come from the earth alone,
but from above—
from where sorrow cannot reach,
nor the weariness of days.
Your mother…
descends from the gardens of heaven,
bringing prayers instead of gifts,
gently soothing your distant-near heart,
and she says:
“My piece of soul…
a lifetime I wrote with my own hands
before time could claim it…
happy birthday, my son,
and every year I see you
just as I left you…
pure…
like the very first heartbeat.”
She tells you:
“Do not grieve my absence…
I am here…
in every prayer you feel,
in every tear too shy to fall,
and in every moment
you long for an embrace… and find none.”
From 1964
until now,
you walk…
and I walk with you,
unseen,
yet closer than your heartbeat.
From Bandar Belbeis
to Belbeis Center,
names have changed,
but my prayer for you
never has.
O bearer of a birth unlike any other…
every year, you remain
a mother’s prayer
whose gates of heaven never closed.
