What I See in You - when all I can hear is music

So… after years of silence, I’ve finally crawled back to writing in Arabic. Why? Because apparently, all it takes is one very soft, very persistent human to short-circuit my emotional firewalls. (You know who you are.)

And I have to admit: writing in Arabic again felt like coming home to a language that doesn’t just describe feelings, it dramatizes them. Arabic doesn’t say “I’m sad.” Arabic builds you a metaphor, feeds it olives, and lets it cry under the moonlight.

I tried my best to carry the weight of those metaphors into English. Honestly? I think I managed about two-thirds of the emotional freight. The rest stayed behind, wrapped in poetic sulking and grammatical gender.

Anyway, enjoy the poem. And if you’re feeling bold (or chaotic), go ahead and toss the Arabic into Google Translate. Just don’t blame me when it turns into a love letter to your cousin’s falafel stand.

________________________

لو خُيِّرتُ أن أَهَبَكِ شيئًا واحدًا
ما حملتُ إليكِ وردًا
ولا قيَّدتُ لكِ الزمان
ولا قدمت حبًّا يقولُ عن نفسِه أنا
بل أهديتُكِ عينيَّ
لتُبصري نفسَكِ كما تراها روحي

If I were given to gift you one thing,
I would not bring you roses,
nor a leash around time,
nor offer a love that keeps saying “I.”
I would give you my eyes,
so you may see yourself the way my soul does.

سترين أن الوقتَ يستندُ إلى ابتسامتِكِ فيَسكنُ
وأنَّ وجودك يُهَدِّئُ عواصفَ لا تعلمين بوجودها
سترينَ صمتي حين تنطقين
لأن صوتَكِ قبل أن يكون معنى فهو لحن
موسيقى تُهدهِدُ العالمَ ثم تُترجِمُه.
أما صمتُكِ فهو صلاةٌ لا تُتلى بالكلمات.

You’d watch time lean on your smile and rest.
You’d see storms quiet themselves just because you exist.
You’d notice how I fall silent when you speak:
for your voice is music before it is meaning;
a lullaby for the world that translates it back to itself.
And your silence? a prayer that needs no words.

أنتِ يا من مشتْ قدماكِ على الجَمْرِ
وتشقّقتْ روحُكِ من الألم،
ومع ذلك ها أنتِ لا حقدَ في يدِكِ،
بل ماءٌ تُسكبينه على جراحِ العالم.

You, whose feet have walked on embers,
whose spirit has split along the fault lines of pain,
and yet here you are, no rancour in your hands,
but water you pour over the world’s wounds.

وأنتِ بُرهانٌ
أنَّ مَن انكسرَ
يقدرُ أن ينهضَ رقيقًا، حنونًا
يسكبُ العافيةَ على ما حولَه

And you are the proof
the broken can rise gentle, tender
pouring wholeness over all around.

وستعلمين
بوجودِكِ تصيرُ الحياةُ أقلَّ قسوةً
تَكْسِينَ العالم ثَوْبًا من حريرٍ

And you will know,
by your very being, life grows less cruel;
for the world wears a softer garment because of you.

لو أبصرتِ ما أُبصرُ
لتهاوت مرايا الشكِّ في صدرِكِ،
ولعلمتِ أنكِ من أولئك الذين
جعلتْ السماءُ في حضورهم سكينةً
وفي ضعفهم قوّةً
وفي رقّتهم مجدًا لا يُقال… بل يُعاش

If you could see what I see,
the mirrors of doubt within you would fall.
You’d know you are one of the few,
in whom presence becomes tranquillity,
in whose weakness carries strength,
in whose tenderness wears a glory not pronounced… only lived.

Sega