By Dr. Adnan Bouzan

O woman, not made of clay alone, but of the secrets of clouds and the dew of dawn, a poem that walks on two feet and hides in its gaze the maps of the universe, I write to you because you are the labyrinth in which I search for myself, and the mirror that restores my face when it shatters amid the rush of days. I write to you with a voice that sometimes groans under the weight of love, and sometimes laughs when it reminds me that love also carries the pure taste of longing; you departed as if separation were for you a ritual of eternity, as if you knew that every absence brings a second birth of pain. You left what was between us to fate, to fire, and to burning, as a poet leaves his poem to the wind to tear its pages, and so memories became embers in my hands; I touch them, fearing they will burn my fingers, for I believe that words do not burn when touched by the intentions of love. I gathered your ashes in my heart and breathed upon them until they could light my path through the long nights, so your ashes became a fire that awakens my stories when silence cloaks them, extending to me like a lighthouse on the coast of my exile.

O woman, you are the homeland from which we are exiled and to which we return in dreams, you are the sea in which we drown if its branches of longing unfold to us, you are the paradise that no one enters except through the gates of yearning, and you are also the wound that reminds a human being that he is alive; greater than an idea, deeper than a body, truer than a moment, you are a miracle that justifies naming everything, arming yourself with it when necessary and relinquishing it when needed. How could it be otherwise, you who make silence bear the meaning of words and grant existence a second language when you smile? You are not merely a woman in my story, but the entire text that lives when you pronounce a name and its echo resonates in my chest; you are the tale I return to whenever paths confuse me, and you are also the absence that taught me how to read the details of existence in the light of a starless night.

You departed; but which woman can leave as if leaving no trace? You left traces of little things unnoticed by anyone but those who love; you left the scent of coffee on the rim of a cup, a shadow of a word that cannot be erased from the morning notebook, a trace of laughter in a corner of the house where time rusts slowly; and you left as if learning the language of departure, practicing it until you mastered it. Yet, you did not leave my language, you did not abandon my papers, nor did you exit my skin, which has grown accustomed to writing you in every line as stars are written in the night’s notebook. And if you chose separation, I have chosen to remain on your shores; I wait for your return as the sea waits for its wave, as the dawn waits for its first rays. My life has no return without you, nor does the poem have life without your voice whispering my name.

I write to you to tell you that I have seen you in all the things you did not leave behind; I saw you in the shadow of a tree leaning in search of another shade, in a book I folded at midnight, in a wet window with the murmur of rain that never tires of falling, I saw you in the mirror of a tiny droplet sitting on a rose, trembling for fear of falling, I saw you in women who walk quietly, carrying the history of cities in their eyes, and I saw you in men who love silently and learn patience from you without realizing it; and whenever I saw you, I remembered that love also has equations solvable only with a sincere embrace, and a story told in a soft voice that a single heart can hear.

O woman, I do not demand your return as flowers demand water, nor do I want you to repeat what was between us as if it were an old play performed again on an ancient stage; all I want is for you to shine upon yourself as you once illuminated me, to know that in your departure there is intensity, and in your staying there is blessing, and that life has two faces: a face that laughs when you awaken, and a face that cries when you leave. Choose for yourself whether to stay or depart, and if you choose departure, know that my heart will not easily learn to forget you, just as the sea does not learn to calm once a stone of longing is thrown into it.

I conclude this letter to you as the most sacred books are concluded, with a line of ash and light, for a love like this does not fade, but transforms each day into a new meaning, into a question that never tires of seeking an answer; return if you wish, remain if you wish, for every choice of yours carries within it a chapter of my life, and you alone are capable of writing the ending or letting my eternal chapter flow

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