From my December 2005 Arabic diary.
This English version is an adaptation, created with the help of AI. The original Arabic text appears below.This is not a poem of pride, but of shame.
It was never sent to the woman addressed here. It remained private — a dark mark in my own history.I keep it as a reminder of how easily love can be overreached:
how an energy meant to give and gift can be twisted into a tool of control,
how devotion can slip into manipulation,
how care can disguise the urge to rule.Image by Ferdinand Studio
Damascus —
Brown-eyed girl, don’t play the proud—
you’re drowning in the open sea,
and I alone am what you have,
my ships the only shore you see.
What worth are eyes so dark and wide,
the mouth, the marble-domed allure?
What is that long and flowing hair
if my own hands don’t comb it pure?
Who are you—what is your past—
without my verses giving name?
Outside my heart, beyond my lines,
are you more than a street-side flame?
Take my arm—climb up, come close,
be gentle with your weary frame.
Abandon dreams, abandon hope
of finding more than my small fleet upon this endless plain.
The road back home is only mine—
my love, don’t lose yourself to pride.
For pride is how the drowning sink,
how even queens are pulled by tide.
You may die once—just once, it’s true.
But after that, you won’t be born anew.
بنيّةَ العينينِ لا تُكابري
في البحرِ أنتِ غارقةٌ
و ليسَ لكِ سوى سُفني
دوني ما قيمةُ عينيكِ؟
و الثغرِ، و قبابِ المرمرِ
و ما شَعركِ الطّويلُ؟
إذا لم تمشّطهُ أصابعي
مَن أنتِ؟ ما تاريخكِ؟
دون حروفِ قصائدي
و خارج قلبي، هل لكِ ..
سوى رصيفِ الشّارعِ؟
خذي ذراعي و اصعدي
وارفقي بجسمكِ المرهقِ
كفَي عن الوهمِ، لا لا تأملي
أن تجدي في البحر غير زوارقي
طريقَ العودةِ إليَّ، حبيبتي ، لا تفقدي
دعي كبريائكِ جانباً
فقد، بالكبرياء، تغرقي
يُمكنكِ الموتُ مرةً..
بعدُها لن تُخلَقي
Roumani Line 