Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
The moan of the abandoned bed flows
Through the very limbs of poetry, leaving it with nothing;
With your inkwell running dry, my life has withered after you,
And the scorching wind has decayed the branch within my soul.
—
On the paper of yearning, I drew my silence—
Like deep cracks in the dry soil of a barren spirit.
Why does the word stumble now that you are distant?
And why does the pulse feel so weighed down by its own heavy knowing?
—
I am the pen that never once ran dry
Of this majestic love, nor did it ever surrender;
But ever since you departed, I have wept in bereavement,
Until my kohl-black ink ran down, and its stars were extinguished.
—
O my beloved, O the depth of my sea,
O my abundant inkwell… be generous!
For the thirsty writer is weeping,
And my papers suffer an endless sleeplessness.
—
When is our meeting? For the minutes of our love have grown old,
And a paralysis has stricken the fingertips of the reed-pen.
We long for our promised embrace one day,
So that our covenant may blossom, and its dark clouds may clear.
—
When will you pour your spilled love into my dry veins?
So that I may write a line upon the forehead of the sun:
“That love shall never perish, if only
The two bleeding ones reunite… and my bliss finally returns.”
