The poet is like a silent dervish,
words are his beads of remembrance,
and every verse—
a prayer offered in an unseen court.
To him, the poem is a river,
whose source is not found in this world—
it flows from the unseen mountains of the soul,
like a fountain of light.
The poet is sometimes fire,
a silent flame burning within—
its smoke unseen,
yet its warmth spreads
across countless hearts.
A poem is a mirror of the heart,
where not words, but feelings are reflected—
where sorrow falls like rain,
and love becomes an endless sky.
The poet is a traveler,
who walks no visible path—
his way is unseen,
his destination—the deepest Kaaba of the heart.
A poem is sometimes silence,
where words come to an end,
yet meaning remains—
like hidden tears within prostration.
The poet does not write with a pen,
he writes with the soul—
not ink, but emotions flow,
and every letter becomes a remembrance.
A poem is a hidden love,
that does not seek to be revealed—
yet in every line it softly whispers,
“I am here… feel me.”
So the poet never takes pride,
he only carries—
the poem is not his, it is the language of his soul,
and he himself is a single line
being written by his own soul.
