Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Do not pluck the rose before it blooms,
For in the branch lie fragrance and dreams;
Every rose has its season and its hour,
And every heart its keeper and its place.
Do not steal the joy from a tender bud
That still dreams of the radiant morning;
Perhaps behind the thorns that guard it
There is a heart preparing its gift of love.
Not every hand that reaches for the flower
Has the right to claim its branches or fragrance;
The flower is a trust for the one who comes
To hold it with love, tenderness, and grace.
Let it unfold in quietness,
Let the dew rest gently upon its leaves;
And when its beauty has reached its fullness,
Let the one destined for it come.
Do not break the bud that has not yet matured,
For plucking before ripeness leaves a deeper wound;
You may pluck the rose in a fleeting moment,
But you may destroy all that was meant to bloom.
Behind every flower there is someone waiting,
Hoping for its festival of joy to come;
And behind every silent dream of a heart
There is one who awaits union, not regretful tears.
For tenderness is the fairest gift
To one who lives upon the promise of love;
Love is not a prize to be seized—
Love is a trust, a covenant of faithfulness.
When you see the rose at the height of its beauty,
Bow before it, and leave the kiss to the dew;
And tell your heart: Do not hurry—perhaps
This beauty has already been promised to another.
Do not pluck the rose before its season,
For perhaps it has one to whom it belongs by destiny;
And perhaps behind its fragrance
A family awaits the joy that is near.
Leave the rose to its appointed time of fullness,
And hearts to the appointments of fate;
For the finest love is the love that protects its flower
Until the one meant for it arrives by choice.
And when the hour of gathering finally comes, smile;
Do not make the rose ashamed of its sorrow,
For the time has come for joy to dwell
In the hands of the one destined for it, and in its dreams.
Around the rose are wolves who see
In the flower nothing but a chance to prey;
They want it before its spring is complete,
And care nothing for the sanctity of feeling.
They violate the innocence that has not yet matured,
And pursue a woman bound by a covenant and a home,
As though hearts were spoils in their hands,
And love belonged to whoever could take pleasure without reverence.
They know no reverence for boundaries,
Nor for the heart that has chosen its place;
They see the woman as a passing flower,
And fail to see the human being behind the rose.
How cruel are the wolves of humankind
When they mistake vulnerability for an invitation to attack;
They forget that every heart possesses freedom,
And that every person has the right to choose.
Leave the rose to the one the rose itself chooses,
And let the heart preserve its secret and its dignity;
A woman is not a hunter’s prize,
And love is not a field for violation.
And if the rose already has one to whom it is pledged, respect
The covenant of hearts and the sanctity of their homes;
For whoever has not learned how to honor and protect a woman
Has not understood love, nor the meaning of being human.
You who pluck the rose of another,
Stop for a moment and ask yourself:
If you were the one whose heart was pledged to her, would you accept it for your mother?
Would you accept it for your sister? Would you accept it for your wife?
Beware…
Between a glance and a breath,
An entire lifetime may be folded away;
A glance may remain unfinished,
And a breath may never taste its joy…
And here, where regret can no longer help,
Where a flower can never be returned to its branch,
Farewell arrives…
What a bitter ending.
