By Dr. Adnan Bouzan
As if life, when it was born, did not weep in vain — its first cry was a declaration of presence against the face of nothingness, a defiance of a darkness long awaited. That cry tore through the womb of silence, and the breaths of the universe gathered around it like a mother welcoming her newborn — promised not immortality, but light.
The cry of life is not a note of fear, but a symphony of existence played upon the string of pain. It is the first sound that faced annihilation, the first heartbeat that trembled, then loved, then believed that anguish is the clearest shape of life. For everything born of silence must cry to know itself, and everything that seeks to love begins with a shiver.
That cry, in its depths, is not merely an echo of physical pain, but a protest against a death that preceded us — against the coldness of nothing that came before. It is a proclamation of rebellion against the eternal silence that wraps the planets, and against the absence that swallows meaning. It says, “Here I am!” — says it while trembling like a beam of light just emerging from the womb of void.
When the cry of life reverberates through the corridors of existence, it awakens the rose from its slumber, restores to water its first quiver, and gives the wind back its wonder as it touches the face of the clouds. It is the melody the universe learned before it knew speech — the first weeping that later became laughter, then song, then a poem called humanity.
In every newborn, there is a cry; in every lover, a cry; in every poet, a cry — for life dwells only in those who cry out against its vanishing. The cry of love when doors open upon the impossible; the cry of pain when the beloved departs; the cry of longing when we see what we once were reflected in what we shall never be again.
It is a cry that hides within us whenever the dream is strangled, then returns to shatter the night of despair with a single star. A cry that says: there is still room in the heart for light, and still within humanity remnants of the will to be beautiful despite the pain.
The cry of life is not merely a birth — it is countless births, in every tear, in every kiss, in every heartbreak from which the soul rises like dawn from the ashes of night.
It is the signature of existence on the covenant of eternity, whispering to nothingness: You shall not win.
For every living being cries once to live,
but those who have known meaning — cry in every moment to remain.