art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The Isolation of the Train Carriage
Every passenger on the train carries their ticket and their own curse of loneliness. Faces may laugh and conversations may fill the next seat, but the soul remains alone in its compartment. We cross paths for a moment, then move on; no one truly knows the story of memory in which the other hides. And in the end, the echo of the noise lingers behind us, and we realize that we have been on a long journey in the company of fleeting illusions.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
Planting Light
Hope is not a magic wand waving in the air, but a courageous inner decision to refuse to be extinguished. It is a seed planted in the soil of doubt and watered with the certainty that tomorrow will be unlike today. True hope lies in seeing the light within the cavern of the soul, not in waiting for the sun to rise from the outside. And when a person speaks of hope, they are not lying to their reality, but rather reshaping the future in the language of possibility.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
The Rock of Burden and the Horizon
The past is not a rock we drag, but a bridge we have crossed, teaching us the weight of our next steps. The burden lies not in the events themselves, but in our clinging to the illusion of returning to them. True light does not come from denying yesterday, but from accepting the storms we weathered as beacons. And when we look back, we find that every stumble was a cornerstone for a more expansive future, and that the dawn of tomorrow is born only when we free our hands from the remnants of yesterday.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
Memory Boxes
Memory is not an archive of the past, but a frozen present in which we live without pause. Every time we try to bury what hurts, it returns to grow more vividly in the soil of our dreams. We are prisoners of stories we ourselves created, opening their old boxes not to retrieve them, but to confirm that the pain is still alive. It is the greatest deception; we imagine we are moving forward, while we are merely orbiting the events we once refused to forget.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
The Horizon of the Railway
Despite the darkness pierced by the wheels, the unseen horizon remains the train's fuel. The lesson is not in the speed of our arrival, but in our ability to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Every stop is an opportunity to rearrange our belongings and intentions, and every whistle is a declaration of a new, broader beginning. As long as the movement continues, there is always room to plant a seed of hope.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
Faces change.
It is not things that age, but our perception of them. Time does not change walls, but it changes the meaning of standing before them. How many goals that were once lofty are now merely dry wells? We discover too late that our most precious possessions are the empty spaces we left for wonder. And when we turn around, we see that what we thought was a burden on our shoulders was, in reality, wings we never dared to spread.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
The Wandering of the Awakened
Truth is not a treasure to be discovered, but rather a chain from which we break free each morning. Humanity's greatest battles rage in silent corridors, where the "I who was" clashes with the "I who ought to be." We live in the abyss separating what we show the world from what we hide from ourselves. And whoever thinks they have arrived is merely a traveler exhausted by the wandering, failing to realize that the journey of self-discovery is itself the self.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
The Scar of Trust
In every heart stabbed today, the scene of Caesar watching Brutus raise the knife of betrayal is repeated. It's not about losing position or material ruin, but about the shattering of the illusion of security in the victim's eyes. Betrayal tears apart the delicate fabric of humanity, transforming long-standing intimacy into a deep scar. The eternal question remains: Was love ever a veil for treachery, or did human weakness triumph over the bond of loyalty?
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
Modern Brutus
The betrayal of Brutus today is manifested in the stabs of colleagues who wear the mask of loyalty while conspiring behind the scenes. These are not physical daggers, but rather the assassination of trust and credibility in the corridors of power and corporations. It is the cry of "Even you?" upon discovering that a friend or partner has sacrificed their most cherished values for personal advancement or immediate gain, confirming that treachery remains the most lethal force.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
The Soul's Fasting
Solitude is not the absence of people, but a concentrated presence of the self. In the realm of silence, the masks of external clamor fall away, and the soul retrieves its native tongue. Here, being alone becomes a window to eavesdrop on wisdom, a safe harbor from which original thoughts set sail. It is not an escape, but a mandatory fast from distraction, so we may return to the world possessing an internal compass that never fades.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
Echoes of the Soul
We do not seek truth outside, but for the echo reverberating within the depths of the soul. Every mirror in the world is a deception, save the one that reflects the fissure of silence inside us. Only the cracks tell the story of creation; how many times we had to break to realize that light dwells in the voids, and that life is but the audacity of living in the in-between.
By Mo,Ghandour2 months ago in Poets
