Written as a boundary-setting letter in my Arabic diary (March 2006). This is an English adaptation, prepared with the help of AI. The original Arabic poem follows below.
Image by Dương Nhân
Do not return to me—
you’ll find in me but ruin,
fields of ash, collapsed debris.
Strike me from your history—
my presence in your past is sin to be.
Adapted from my original Arabic diary (January 2006). This English version was created with the help of AI as a literary adaptation. The original Arabic poem follows.
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Damascus —
Before your eyes, don’t ask me why
I lose my balance, falter, sway—
Why like a child I shake and shy,
And stumble over what I say.
Don’t ask of me how I am found,
For words desert me when you’re near;
Your eyes are forests, vast, unbound,
No wonder that my tongue disappears.
Written in Damascus in my youth, this poem is addressed to my cousin Roba, as a moral witness and an early influence on my relationship with language and writing. The English version is an adaptation produced with the help of AI. The original Arabic poem appears below.
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I write with Damascus jasmine, a greeting,
to you—most precious of my kindred line,
you who entered the ledger of my life
the moment you set sail in grief’s long time.
Written in Arabic in November 2005. This English version is an adaptation created with the assistance of AI. The original poem follows.
Image by NEOSiAM 2024+
Damascus —
To you, my lady—
with flowers I write my greeting clear.
I love to start all love with flowers,
and even wars with flowers here;
for flowers, to me, are the spine of courage,
the quiet core of what is dear.
(Originally written as “to my first love”) — This poem was written in November 2005 as a love letter and breakup letter to my first girlfriend. The English version is a faithful adaptation of the original Arabic poem, with the help of AI. The original Arabic text appears below.
Damascus —
Because words get lost,
and talk keeps branching wide,
and every time it branches,
the goal drifts farther aside.
Because history gets written,
I chose to fall silent—
and write.
Roumani Line 