walid-abdallah
35/M
Walid Abdallah is an accomplished Egyptian poet, academic, and translator whose work bridges the cultural and literary landscapes of the Arab and Western worlds. / [email protected] / / +201003453073
My Egypt shines beneath the morning light,
A land of peace, of beauty, and of might.
The Nile still sings through every field and shore,
Its ancient voice lives deeply evermore.
The pyramids stand tall against the sky,
Like faithful guards that never fade or die.
In Cairo’s heart, the crowded streets still glow,
With dreams that through the endless ages flow.
The call to prayer rises soft and clear,
A sound that brings both comfort and good cheer.
The palm trees dance beside the river’s side,
Like loving arms stretched open far and wide.
From Aswan’s warmth to Alexandria’s sea,
My homeland lives forever close to me.
Though storms may come and bring us pain and fear,
My Egypt’s soul will always persevere.
Her people carry kindness in their hearts,
United still although the world departs.
No distant land could ever take your place,
Or match the light reflected in your face.
Oh Egypt, you remain my hope and home,
The dearest land wherever I may roam.
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 4:34 AM UTC
I am the voice whose truth made wondering hearts appear,
For simple words of mine have rung too nakedly sincere.
I am the soul who hides the tides no mortal eyes may see,
A sea of thoughts enclosed within the silent shell of me.
I am the friend of solitude, of shadow and of night,
Where darkness folds its wings around the fragile flame of light.
I read the language eyes confess when lips refuse their part,
The trembling script of silent souls inscribed upon the heart.
I do not fear the world’s farewell nor distance drawing far,
For pride within my spirit weighs more than the world’s bright star.
I take the share that Heaven gives with calm and grateful hand,
Thus richer than the kings who rule the dust of shifting sand.
When anger wakes its storm in me, I bind its burning breath,
For once the thunder breaks its chain it leaves behind but death.
I know revenge—its road lies clear before my inward sight,
Yet wisdom spares my days from fools unworthy of the fight.
I wear the dawn of hopeful smiles where passing eyes may see,
While hidden moons of grief still rise in secret tides of me. 💔
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 1:13 PM UTC
You think that forty years declare you old,
Or fifty, sixty, so the numbers told.
Yet age is not the number time has cast,
Nor silver threads that through your hair have passed.
It is not lines that round your eyes appear,
Nor marks of time that slowly gather here.
The truest age is counted deep within,
In silent wars the heart has fought to win.
It is the times you broke in hidden pain,
Then rose again though none could see the strain.
The nights you slept while grief consumed your chest,
Yet spoke to none, denying heart its rest.
For you had learned, in wisdom hard and grim,
That few could hear and fewer understand.
It is the hour you sadly came to see
That those most loved could wound you bitterly.
True age is shock that strikes the soul apart,
One single blow that ages mind and heart.
The moment when you waited for a word,
A tender phrase of comfort never heard.
The time you thought a friend would guard your side,
Yet found your back abandoned in the tide.
It is farewell—not only death’s decree,
But living souls who vanish suddenly.
The friend who changed within a fleeting day,
The one you trusted, yet who walked away.
True age is born from bitter disbelief,
For such betrayal deepens every grief.
It breaks the heart, yet something more profound:
Your faith in life itself lies shattered, drowned.
The moment when you learned with weary sight
That kindness does not always lead to right.
That honest hearts may sometimes suffer pain,
And gifts of worth are offered oft in vain.
True age is every trial you endured
Before your heart was ready or assured.
The roads you walked with trembling, fearful tread,
Yet chose them still, for none were left instead.
It is the people who your hopes betrayed—
Not always cruel, but greater than they seemed you made.
Each time you said, “I shall not feel this pain,”
Yet felt it deep and spoke those words in vain.
“I will move on,” you whispered to the past,
And moved indeed—though changed at last.
True age is quiet born of weary years,
Not peace of mind, but rest from endless tears.
You ceased to plead, to wait, to justify,
And let your silent strength alone reply.
You learned to laugh while silence filled your soul,
A smile to bear the wounds beyond control.
True age is wisdom calm and self-possessed,
A thoughtful heart no longer rashly pressed.
Not weak, but gentle—seeing through disguise,
Aware of truth beneath life’s veiled lies.
So you grew not because the years went by,
But through the storms you faced beneath the sky.
Through all you lost, endured, and overcame,
And lonely roads where none beside you came.
For some grow old through time’s relentless art,
But some grow old through sorrow of the heart.
Some grow through wisdom gained from trials severe,
Some grow because the world was hard and drear.
Yet one who walks through all and still can stand,
Holds deeper strength no numbers can command.
Not old in years—but great in soul and mind,
Through pain and truth that life has left behind.
And if these words within your spirit ring,
Know this: one year did not such aging bring.
Not two—but rather one full life you bore,
Compressed within the trials you knew before.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 4:04 PM UTC
We come to life as equals, side by side,
The prince and peasant share the selfsame guide.
The child of kings, in silk and golden grace,
Is like the child who dwells in humble place.
And when we leave this fleeting world behind,
Bare graves receive the noble and the blind.
No crown remains, no servant stands nearby,
All lie alike beneath the silent sky.
Our deeds alone will raise us or will fall,
For truth shall judge the hidden hearts of all.
Upon that Day when every soul must see,
The weight of right and wrong eternally.
There wait bright maidens, rivers running wide,
And lofty halls where blessed souls abide.
Or blazing fire where guilty spirits cry,
A burning fate no mortal can deny.
So choose your path while still your days remain,
While nights and dawns still circle once again.
For when tomorrow’s final gate appears,
No soul returns to change its former years.
Your fate shall rest where endless dwellings be:
Either the gardens—or the dark abyss to see.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 3:53 PM UTC
You ask me what the sweetest joy may be,
The finest feeling granted hearts to see.
I answer you with truth both clear and known:
The bliss of feeling you are not alone.
To feel your worth no hardship can undo,
And know no careless hand abandons you.
To know that if you fail or lose your way,
A heart still keeps your fragile soul at bay.
To trust that even in your darkest mood,
No love will change, no loyalty conclude.
To know no other takes your sacred place,
Nor time erases memory or grace.
To feel no soul will leave you in despair,
Even when you cannot your burdens bear.
When you yourself grow weary of your fight,
Another holds your fading hope to light.
No sweeter gift the human heart can own
Than knowing every tear is not alone.
That gentle hands will wipe each falling rain,
And ease the quiet sorrow and the pain.
That in the thorns when troubled paths appear,
A faithful hand will still remain sincere.
For love is proved when storms refuse to cease,
Yet steadfast hearts still guard each other's peace.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 3:34 PM UTC
There is an ancient tale the poets sing,
Of wandering seas and one long-suffering king.
When Troy had fallen in its ash and flame,
The crafty Odysseus began his way back home again.
Ten weary years he sailed through grief and foam,
With only hope to guide his heart toward home.
His faithful wife still waited day and night,
While greedy suitors claimed his halls by right.
Penelope endured their noise and pride,
Yet kept her love and honor locked inside.
Young Telemachus, uncertain and alone,
Desired to learn the fate his father’d known.
He sailed to kings whose memories could tell
If brave Odysseus lived or if he fell.
Old Nestor spoke of valor long ago,
While Menelaus said the truth he knew:
“Your father lives, though trapped by fate’s command,
Far from his throne and far from Ithaca’s land.”
Meanwhile the hero, captive to a queen,
On Calypso’s island lived unseen.
The nymph would keep him there with charm and grace,
Yet home’s dear memory none could ever replace.
Then mighty Zeus commanded from the sky
That Hermes tell the nymph to let him fly.
Released at last, he built a fragile frame,
A raft of hope upon the restless main.
But Poseidon’s rage rose dark against the tide,
For Polyphemus, his blinded son, had cried.
Storms shook the waves and shattered sail and oar,
Yet still the hero struggled toward the shore.
The Phaeacians found him worn with pain and scars,
And heard his tales of monsters, gods, and wars.
With kindness rare they carried him once more
Across the sea to Ithaca’s beloved shore.
Yet not as king did he return again,
But as a beggar clothed in rags and pain.
He watched the suitors feasting in his hall,
Their pride and waste an insult over all.
With loyal son and servants brave and few,
The patient hero planned what he must do.
The bow was strung, the arrows swift and sure,
And justice struck the wicked and impure.
The palace echoed with the suitors’ fall,
And rightful order once returned to all.
At last Penelope beheld his face,
Yet tested well the truth of his embrace.
For only he could know the marriage bed
Whose rooted trunk the living chamber spread.
Thus love prevailed when doubt had passed away,
And night of wandering turned to dawn of day.
So ends the tale the ancient singers tell:
How wit and patience conquered fate as well.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 2:52 PM UTC
يا أُمُّ يا نبعَ الحنانِ المُدرَارِ
يا نجمةً تهوي على قلبي بنورٍ مُستَنارِ
من حضنكِ الدُّنيا تلينُ وتستقيمُ بلا انكسارِ
ودعاؤكِ المبحوحُ في الأفقِ ارتقى مثلَ السَّحابِ إلى البِدارِ
في خُطوتي أشدو بصوتكِ كلَّما ضاقَ المَسارِ
فأراكِ كالهمسِ الخفيِّ يُعيدُ لي صَبري وقُدرتي على احتمالِ الجارفاتِ من الأقدارِ
كم ضُمَّ قلبي في يديكِ إذا تَوالى فيه نارُ الانكسارِ
وكنتِ بلسماً يمحو الجراحَ ويوقظُ العمرَ المثارِ
حبُّكِ مصباحٌ يُضيءُ الدربَ مهما لاحَ ليلٌ مُستطارِ
ونداكِ شمسٌ ما غدت يوماً تُوارى بالستارِ
يا وجهَ أمني حينَ يشتدُّ الظلامُ بلا انحسارِ
يا دفءَ أيّامي إذا اشتدَّ الخُطوبُ على الديارِ
ذكراكِ حضنٌ شكَّل الدنيا بعطرٍ لا يُبارِ
وكأنكِ الأقربُ رغمَ الغيابِ، وكأنَّ بيني والبقاءِ بكِ قرارِ
يا نورَ قلبي، يا مُنى روحي، ويا لُبَّ الوقارِ
بِكِ اكتملتْ أيّامُ عمري، وبيكِ قامَ لي اعتصارُ
إن غبتِ عن دنيايِ طيفاً ما غبِبتِ عن الفِكارِ
فالحبُّ يبقى خالداً ما دامَ يسكنُني مِثارِ
فاذهبي رُوحاً إلى عليائِكِ العُظمى بإكليلِ الوقارِ
سأظلُّ أهتف: قد ملكتِ القلبَ يا أُمّي… وما زالَ الهوى يجريكِ في عمري مَجارِ
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 10:59 AM UTC
I dream of hills where olive branches sway,
And scent of jasmine greets the break of day.
I see the courtyard where I used to run,
Beneath the ancient fig that kissed the sun.
The wind still whispers names I used to know,
Soft echoes from a stream’s eternal flow.
Yet here I wander, exiled and alone,
A stranger bound by dust and weary stone.
Each star recalls a lantern from our street,
Where laughter bloomed and neighbors used to meet.
The sky was once a dome of tender light,
Before the smoke erased the blue from sight.
I taste the bread my mother used to bake,
And hear her prayers at dawn before I wake.
Though oceans stretch between my heart and land,
I feel its pulse beneath the foreign sand.
The breeze that cools my brow is not the same;
It hums no tales and whispers not my name.
Yet in my soul, its rivers never dry,
Its valleys green beneath a brighter sky.
I’ll cross the storms, no matter how they roar,
To walk its fields and feel its earth once more.
No tyrant’s hand can sever root from tree;
My blood’s the proof that soil belongs to me.
Though walls divide and borders twist and bend,
This longing burns and will not find an end.
For home’s a hymn the exiled hearts recite,
A song of dawn against the endless night.
And one day soon, with lifted hands I’ll roam,
And kiss the soil of my eternal home.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC
When hearts unite, no storm can make them fall,
Their love becomes a fortress over all.
With mercy’s hand, they soothe the wounded soul,
And weave the threads of peace to make it whole.
No hate survives where kindness plants its seed,
For love will bloom and answer every need.
A single smile can melt a bitter night,
And turn the tears of sorrow into light.
Forgiveness flows like rivers to the sea,
It washes pain and sets the spirit free.
The hands that lift the weak are crowned with grace,
They build a world where none are out of place.
A neighbor’s cry becomes a sacred call,
For every heart is bound to care for all.
Through patience, wounds of anger fade away,
And broken bonds find healing day by day.
No wall can rise where unity is strong,
Together, hearts compose a noble song.
The stranger’s face becomes a brother’s face,
When every heart is filled with soft embrace.
The road is hard, but hope will guide our feet,
And hand in hand, the storms we shall defeat.
The threads of love shall weave a robe of peace,
And guard the earth till all our struggles cease.
So let our hearts, like lanterns in the night,
Dispel the dark and spread their gentle light.
For when we stand as one, with hearts aligned,
No force can break the fortress of mankind.
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 11:39 AM UTC
In Gaza’s dust, where dreams are starved and torn,
The children dig for crumbs the world has sworn.
No grain of wheat, no olive branch remains,
Just broken backs and bags of ghostly grains.
Their hands are pale, yet burn with silent might,
While hope turns ash beneath the vulture’s flight.
Each sack they fill is filled with grief and sand,
A war-born harvest on a haunted land.
The smoke of bread becomes their daily breath,
Each bite a battle at the edge of death.
Mothers with arms like branches stripped of fruit
Rock babes to sleep with silence as their lute.
Where once the jasmine climbed and minarets sang,
Now rubble speaks, and hunger’s hammers clang.
Yet still they kneel to scoop what life they can,
Defying siege with dignity and plan.
What state allows a child to beg for wheat?
What soul stays mute as vultures circle meat?
But Gaza, draped in dust and ancient grace,
Still plants its prayers in that forsaken place.
For though the world may look and turn away,
Their roots of hope will bloom some brighter day.
Jul 23, 2025
Jul 23, 2025 at 2:56 PM UTC