The Quiet Pact
We were forged in the hush
of her mourning, a widowed mother with
hands like prayer, soft, but never trembling.
She taught us to walk with our heads high,
to carry our own shadows and never ask for
light.
So we grew like oak trees in separate
fields, each rooted in her strength,
each proud of our branches,
each afraid to lean.
We speak in kindness, in the
language of “I’m fine,” in the
silence between “I miss you” and
“I need you.” We love like stars,
bright, distant, never touching.
She watches us with eyes that know,
but do not ask. We return with gifts,
with laughter, with stories of triumph,
never tears. Because to cry
would be to unravel the myth
that strength means solitude,
that love must not weigh.
But tonight, in the stillness between calls,
we feel it, the ache of unshared
burdens, the irony of a bond so tight
it cannot bend.
And we wonder: what if strength was not silence?
What if love was not a gift we wrapped in distance?
What if the purpose was not to spare
each other, but to carry each other home?
By: Dahlia Ibrahim ©The Quiet Pact! @gainperspectiveblog.wordpress.com
The Door Was Open
From a grandmother’s heart, on her final bed.
“The Door Was Open”
From a grandmother’s heart, on her final bed
The door was open
not just to my room,
but to the years.
They came quietly,
my children,my brothers,
those who had forgotten how to love me right,
those who loved and gave,
but didn’t stay to listen,
didn’t give me the time to understand.
Their eyes lowered,their voices trembling,
they brought me the words they had buried in pride.
“I’m sorry,” they whispered, and though the hour was late,the words arrived like rain on a long-parched garden.
I had forgiven them long ago.But still, to hear it,to feel the weight of their remorse pressed gently into my hands,was a mercy.
I carried their names like prayer beads in my soul,stitched their faults into the quilt of my compassion.
And now,with those two words, I’m sorry, the threads pulled tight,the fabric held.
I saw her, my granddaughter, her tears like morning dew.She saw me whole:not just fading,but full of stories,full of grace,full of love that never asked for return.
They wrapped me gently,not only in cloth,but in the softness of their sorrow.
And I went, not alone,but carried by the weight of their healing.
Let them remember:I did not die bitter.I died whole.
Because love, even late,is still love.And “I’m sorry,”even whispered at the end,
is still a gift.
by: Dahlia Ibrahim @ ©gainperspectiveblog.wordpress.com
Even Butterflies Bleed
The folded winged butterfly
Shook and struggled
On her way out of her cocoon!
Dark were the nights
She remained waiting
For the dawn of her release
Shrouded with fragile layer
Of hope, but she hold on
to it with an iron zeal. It’s life
or death. Emerging triumphantly
Spreading magnificent wings
Towards her new being, changed
grown stronger, the newly born
Butterfly began to fly. Down where
She was writing her new beginning,
I saw drops of blood. I looked up
And understood. Even butterflies
Bleed towards a better, magnificent
New beginnings! Why don’t we?!
The Mountain
As I was approaching
The highland, where the
Road to the Mountain
Starts; I saw the snow capped
Top first. The Mountain stood
There facing the blows of
The wind carving scars on
His face, and he seemed
patiently bearing the
Heavy burden of the
Falling snow over his
Head. I saw the erusion
That this burden made
On every crevice of
The rocks.
Yet, our Mountain stood
Tall and strong. Perhaps
For the deeply rooted
Faith, that the wind
Will evantually soften,
And the snow will
Melt by time.
©gainperspectiveblog12/1/2021
Where do broken hearts go at night?
When the day buzz dims
Under the heavy blanket of the night,
And the silence reigns over the dark,
The broken hearts awake to nurse
The pains and the aches they masked
During the day.
Motherless children moan,
Widows and widowers groan,
Mothers and fathers hearts ache
Over troublesome kids.
Hearts who lost loved ones,
Hearts who suffer from someone,
Hearts who lost the dreams,
And hearts who yearn for
This which they cannot attain;
Their pain is unbearable.
It’s loud and deep and real.
Pain so real it breaks even
The strongest of hearts.
Broken hearts go down the alleys
Of their memory lane.
Memories of old, and recent
Ones too. Some are solace,
Some are torture to go through.
Only those broken hearts
Who come back and soar
Upward, towards the heaven,
Are saved. Those who kindle
The hope and prayers, start
To heal. Little by little, with
Every morning new, those broken
Hearts mend.
©gainperspectiveblog11/18/2021
Then Hope Took Roots©
Under a rocky soil
A stubborn flower
Grew. Aiming for
The sun above,
It raised its head
And stood tall,
And looked strong.
Somewhere deep
underneath the surface,
There in the dark,
Hope was born.
Hope took roots
And lived to tell
A tale of triumph.
©[email protected]/7/2021
The Golden Shore!
Beyond the horizon
Of a calm azure sea,
I have sailed through
Many storms, here
I am! I rest at the
Golden shore.
Just like the albatross ,
Riding the winds
Searching, learning,
Growing gradually
Accustomed to the
Turbulence of the
Forever tumbling
Gale. I have reached
The Golden Shore.
Fighting Titans, as I was
Sailing with heavy burdens
like Atlas of long
Before.
I have accepted my role,
Fulfilled my chores, and
Grew and learned and
Befriended the wind, the oceans,
And the waves.
I was awake in my dreams,
I was present in my wake,
And I submitted to my fate
With grace and wisdom.
I saw Medusa through
True mirrors and realized
That its beauty is fake.
I counted stars while
I stood upon the ground
Firm and strong.
I am not Icarus, I understood,
I learned not to
Trust falsehood.
I kept my head straight,
Fish rot from the head
Down, they said. I learned.
Through storms, and alluring
Brass beaches, I fought,
Like a true warrior inviolable.
Like Tarik, who burned all
His ships upon reaching
The Golden Shore.
© ℗®™[email protected] 7/1/2021
The Eagle With Broken Wings
Praise be to God
That I am an eagle
Even with my broken
Wings I am still
free. I can still smell
The fresh smell
Of the pine trees
Even though I
Fell down from
The top, I am still
Alive and strong
My will is unbend
And my spirit is
still soaring dignified.
The skies above are
Thunderous and
Grey. The ground below
Full of traps and thorns.
Praise be to God,
I learned to navigate
Through danger
Never lose sight
Never lose hope!
Even with broken wings
I am still an eagle
Eyeing the world
From above
My body is full
Of injuries, but
My spirit is unscathed
I was born to soar
I was born for higher
Goals and fit for
Higher places..
I will endure this
Pain and I will
Live through the
Thunder in hope
Undiminished of a
Bright day when
I will spread my
Wings and fly
And fly, and fly,
Right above the
Grayness of today
To that brilliant
Summit where I
Belong.
© ℗®™Gainperspectiveblog@gainperspectiveblog 6/29/2021
Shards of Glass Memories
Moments of loss,
Of pain, beyond
Our capacity of
Comprehension, beyond
Our ability to
Understand of
How to deal with them,
Yet we cannot forget.
Instead, we bury
Them deep inside
The deepest layer
Of our being. By time,
We cover these painful
Memories with layers
Upon layers of happenings
In our lives. Nevertheless,
These memories keep hurting
And hurting from deep within. like
shared glass cutting through our skin.
Bleeding deep inside.
gainperspectiveblog 