Rosary

Arwa Al Samaraie

I traced the beads, each sacred stone,
Ninety-nine names I called my own—
Each breath a facet of the flame,
Each whisper bearing forth Your name:
Almighty, carved in morning skies,
The Beautiful, with endless eyes,
Extender of the reaching light,
The Dominant, who rules the night.
Provider, when the world turns lean,
Responder to the hearts unseen,
Reviver, when all life seems lost,
The Justice, weighing love and cost.

You formed me when You taught him words,
And from that language, wings and birds—
And trees, and thoughts, and tender awe,
And I, within that holy law,
Was born not just of dust or bone,
But of a voice that called me home.

I held Your names like stars on thread,
Their light a map, their fire widespread.
They wrapped me round with silent flame,
And gently whispered why I came.

Yet still, the world—its watching eyes—
Built me a cage, boundaries from invisible lines.
Within their gaze, I wore their doubt,
But never let Your name burn out.

We walked—O Father, Lord above—
You, I, and distance clothed in love.
Along the path where howling wind weep,
Where nature sings what roots still keep,
The rhythm of my step grew strong,
And birds began to shape my song.

The earth itself became my psalm,
The air, a breath of sacred calm.
I learned to sing, to bleed, to rise—
To live as flame beneath the skies.
No longer void, no longer small,
I bore within the source of all.

Five times I knelt with rosary’s thread,
Till time and tears and prayers had led
My trembling voice, my seeking soul,
To Mary, who had made me whole.
She stood, a harbor wrapped in grace,
The savior of the shattered place—
Her eyes, the gates to heaven’s dome,
Her arms, the light that called me home.

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