By: Omayma Lateef
Beneath a moonlit sky,
Of velvet cloak,
Lay an orb ahigh,
Lay timber of oak.
The orb aloft, aglow,
The Summoner of Sights below,
She calls to view a canvas vast,
Of beauty, of promise, bound to last.
Of rivers, of mountains,
Of the Earth, its fountains,
Of canopies of trees,
Of darling honey bees.
The eyes, cannot they wrinkle?
As they embrace such a view,
Cascades of color a thousand,
Hues, nay a few.
But fooled, be not!
By what Mother presents,
For what resides therein,
Varies from the essence.
Whispers of wind,
They warn unto thee
“Lift her veil,
Then thou shalt see!”
A mouth, agape,
The heart, awoe,
An epiphany transpires,
Truth, alas aglow.
همسات الرِّيح
بقلم: أميمة لطيف
قلِّبْ بَصرَك فيما تحت سمائك
هل يرتدُّ إليكَ طَرْفُك مأخوذاً بسِحْر ما حولك؟
تمهَّل إذن!
لا يخدعنَّك ما تصرُّح به الأمُّ
فما يكمن في الجوهر غير ذلك
أتسمعُ همس الرِّيح:
“”ارفع الحُجُبَ … ثمَّ ستبصر…
ستتكشَّف لك النُّبوءة
وتتلألأ الحقيقة…
