By Dr. Adnan Bouzan

Letters do not weep in vain, nor do they bow upon the whiteness of paper except when silence grows too heavy, when the heart can no longer bear the tumult within it, unseen yet deafening. They are the tears of the soul, disguised as words, collapsing like an old wall before a violent wind, flowing across the lines like little rivers searching for their final mouth.

When letters weep, the page becomes a graveyard of secrets, a sky for confessions, and a mirror that reflects our faces stripped of every mask. They are not silent signs stacked beside each other as in the books of law, but living beings that moan, gasp, and cry, carrying our sorrows on their frail shoulders, walking with them to places where no one else can follow.

A letter is a tear, but a tear transformed. When it falls from our eyes, it dries with the wind; but when it falls from our pens, it remains forever—an eternal witness to a moment of fracture no longer ours alone, but now a text shared with others.

And when letters weep, the face of language changes. Language is no longer merely a tool of communication, but turns into an open wound, a muffled cry, a prayer held without minarets or churches. Every drop of black ink is a shard from a sleepless night, every comma a postponed sigh, and every line a caravan of lost souls marching toward the unknown.

Look at poetry when it overflows! Is it not the grand weeping of letters? Is it not a struggle between what can be said and what defies saying? A poem is nothing but a body filled with the scars of weeping letters, with tears that found no cheeks to flow upon and instead poured themselves over paper.

And letters, my friend, do not weep out of nothingness. They weep when time betrays us, when we walk the roads of life only to find companions gone and doors we once knocked never opened. They weep when our homeland fails us, when we become strangers in the alleys of our childhood, searching for the shadow of a home in a memory that no longer recognizes us. They weep when those we love depart, leaving the letters waving alone in a void that does not return their greeting.

Letters are tears with which we write our past that has not healed, our dreams born broken, and our questions that never found an answer. Yet despite their weeping, they carry the secret of salvation. For when they weep, they do not drown us only in darkness—they open cracks in the wall through which light seeps.

The most beautiful thing about letters is that they weep with dignity. They do not explode in noise as we do, but bend in silence, gliding gently across cold whiteness, leaving behind an eternal mark—one that cannot be erased, even if we try. Thus, every written text is a small grave for a great sorrow, and every book a whole city built from tears that found no other path to survival.

And when letters weep, the writer becomes a priest in the temple of secrets. He holds the pen as a devotee holds a candle in a long night, lighting the way even if he himself is lost. He does not write to save the world, but to save himself from drowning—yet, his words rescue countless strangers he will never know.

The weeping of letters is a miracle unnoticed: how can a tiny drop of ink carry the history of a human being, the geography of a heart, and the maps of an entire soul? How can a single sentence lay a hand upon a wound untouched by anyone before, restoring the heartbeat to a weary heart?

Letters, when they weep, do not die… they become more alive. They are tears unlike others, flowing not outward but inward, seeping into us as rain seeps into thirsty soil, bringing forth from our silence new grass, new flowers we never knew we could grow.

And when we read those letters, we weep with them. For we realize we were never alone in this long, desolate journey. Others, too, have wept as we did, and wrote their weeping—turning it into solace for us.

So let the letters weep, my friend. Do not wipe their tears, nor ask them to endure. For their weeping is what builds us the road to salvation. We are never complete until we see the letters weep, never healed until they write for us what we could not say.

For letters, when they weep… they weep on behalf of us all.

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