inspired by whispers

هو المهيْمن، ولو التهَمَ الضُرُّ جسَدك.

هو المهيمن، ولو أوغَل العُمر في القُضبان ينتظر.

سبحانه! لطَالما أغاثَ المجدبين عندما قحَطوا، وأنزلَ الغيثَ من بعد

For I am the author of my own destiny's gate.

No, my self-worth shall not reside afar,

Within me, it shall blossom like a guiding star.

If that which I seek eludes my grasp,

Then I shall toil, in my own soul's vast.

I'll nurture the seeds of my deepest desires,

With tender care, fueling their celestial fires.

I'll plant them firmly in the soil of my heart,

Water them with determination, right from the start.

I'll tend to them, with love and dedication true,

Watching them sprout, reaching for skies of blue.

For, in the end, it is within ourselves we find,

The strength to grow, the power to bind.

Our gardens, lush with dreams and aspirations,

A sanctuary of growth, amidst life's tribulations.

So, let us not seek solace in another's land,

For their gates may close with an unwelcome hand.

No, let us cultivate our own sacred ground,

The golden daffodils bloom, a fleeting, gentle spell, yet my heart yearns for mornings where sunlight dwells. That warm glow, a soft herald of days now gone, of crisp dawn air, of a world in bright, warm throng. The aroma of fresh blooms, sweet lemonade’s tender, sharp taste, and the tender strum of guitar notes, a soft, summer’s embrace, takes me back to a tender, heated place.

هَذا مَحالٌ في القِياسِ بَديعُ

لَو كانَ حُبُّكَ صادِقاً لَأَطَعتَهُ

إِنَّ المُحِبَّ لِمَن يُحِبُّ مُطيعُ

في كُلِّ يَومٍ يَبتَديكَ بِنِعمَةٍ

While the Thracians say that theirs have blue eyes and red hair.

Yet if cattle or horses or lions had hands and could draw,

And could sculpt like men, then the horses would draw their gods

Like horses, and cattle like cattle; and each they would shape

Yes I get mesmerized by cherry blossom but my heart shivers for that intense Petrichor smell in the early mornings, the smell of fresh bakes and bitter coffee with Jazz winter music in the back