Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
In the night… when the palace sleeps amid Eid revelry,
And bellies are filled with the finest meat and delights,
The deeply-rooted pain awakens in the forgotten alleys,
Walking on an empty stomach that weeps from deprivation,
Searching the darkness for the remnants of peace.
How can he sleep, who filled his vaults with gold?
While his neighbor folds the Day of Sacrifice over severe starvation,
How does he dare to say, “I am a believer,”
When within sight… a child dies of hunger on this great morning?
Ah… O Son of Al-Khattab, the revered!
The sound of your garment still moans under the weight,
The flour on your shoulder was justice walking among the people,
And your burning tears poured mercy into the cooking pots,
Blowing into the fire… so the little ones could eat their fill on their Eid,
While you wept in awe of the account before the Almighty King.
O dwellers of palaces built upon groans and tears,
Has this screaming not shaken you during the days of joy and Takbeer?
Are you not weary of concealing flaws with silk?
The time has come for the false veil to be torn this Eid,
And for the stifled voice to ascend,
To the Lord of the Heavens…
In supplication… in weeping… and in sighs.
