I won’t write happy poems
For joy must pass, never stay.
Our moments captured in rhythms
Become shadows swept away.
Should full moon be the sign we recall,
We lose the beauty of its waxing light.
If every feast is saved for شَوَّال,
The years dissolve into ashes by night.
I once wrote a happy poem
Of the Muse who set my soul aflame.
Now I only have my rhythms
Where love and tears remain unnamed.
Happiness is a hideous tragedy
For no joy is ever carved in stone.
So play for me the heartiest melody
Before memories turn to ghosts unknown,
The only chorus is sorrow’s own.
