عربي 
EN 
By Dr. Adnan Bozan
March… that visitor who knocks on the doors of the heart with a blend of hope and longing, carrying within its folds the ecstasy of blooming and the ache of memory. As if it were a blank page granted by winter, upon which the sun writes lines of warmth, while the wind whispers songs of rain that departed in haste—leaving behind hymns of the earth adorned in a green shawl, like a bride late to her wedding.
Between the ink of the pen and the tears of the soul, March is born in the womb of words, growing between the fingers of yearning, stretching like an ancient root in the depths of memory. Pens write about it with passion, as if trying to capture it within lines, but it refuses to be mere letters; it is a state of emotional trembling, a dance between celebrating life and bowing to an old sorrow that still resides in memory.
March is the time of reunion between a heart longing for warmth and a soul lured by recollections. How many old songs return with its breezes, carrying us to courtyards we thought had vanished, to faces that dwell within us despite fading from the mirror of reality. March is that fleeting passerby who awakens in us the fervor of longing without granting us an answer, as if silently asking: Do we truly forget?
In this month, ink overflows on paper as tears overflow on cheeks, as if pen and soul are partners in confession, pouring their yearning onto the blankness, hoping it may give rise to life once more. In March, the earth weeps rain, and souls weep in secret; and in between, pens write tales of light and shadow—between the birth of a flower and the fading of a ghost, between the smile of the sun and the tear of dusk.
March… as if it were a symphony of loss and encounter, of tears and dreams, of a winter departing and a hesitant spring. Of hearts striving to inscribe upon the page of days something resembling peace.
March… like a postponed letter that arrives late yet never loses its impact—like a bird that spent the winter migrating, only to return in search of its old nest, cloaked in fear that it may no longer find it as it left it. It is the month of stirrings that storm the heart; every flower blooming within it holds an old memory, every breeze that stirs carries away a secret not yet spoken.
When March passes, time dons the confusion of seasons—it stands between farewell and welcome, between fading cold and warmth that stretches lazily. Souls feel as though they are on the threshold of an unfinished dream, as if holding the edge of a thread of light, afraid to lose it before reaching their destination.
In March, memories sleep on the edges of days, then awaken suddenly with the first late drizzle or with an old tune carried in by the wind through an open window. It is a month that reshapes emotions, flips through the pages of forgotten notebooks, opens wounds we thought had healed—yet at the same time, it grants the heart another chance to begin again, to search for an inner spring not scattered by storms.
It is a meeting between past and present, between the step that has passed and the one yet to come. In it, eyes weep with translucent tears—uncertain whether they grieve what has gone, or long for what is to come. And in it, the pen overflows—not merely to write, but to relieve the soul of some of its burdens, to pour out what the days have stored in ink that ripples with emotion, until the paper itself seems to hear the whispers of the heart and the tremble of its breath.
March… O friend of memory and companion of transformation—you pass, yet never truly leave. You dwell within us as the wave dwells in the sea, as light dwells in the eyes of dreamers. O fleeting and lingering traveler, stay a while… or take us with you—perhaps we may write on your white pages a line the days shall never erase.