#Echoes of a Forgotten Throne#
In corridors of time, where yesteryear reclines,
On cushions woven soft from golden grain,
The family throne, once proud, in splendor shines,
Not gold, but blood-bound ties, a loving chain.
Of whispered tales beneath the moon so shy,
Ancestors, firm stakes in a land once dry,
Their stories like a breeze, our souls they'd brush,
Planting deep within us, constancy's firm hush.
The home, a little kingdom, doors never quite shut,
Laughter cascaded down, drying days so grim.
Sorrows, a passing cloud, shared without a cut,
No screens to separate, no wires to dim
Affection's gentle glow. Eyes, mirrors of the heart,
Hands, bridges of tenderness, playing their vital part.
The bread, kneaded with love, from the oven so kind,
Shared by all, no stranger, no one left behind.
Of flesh and blood were all, from one story's thread,
One common dream they held, by shared hopes fed.
But today, oh Time, so stubborn and so grim,
The features have been changed, our soul's album lies torn.
The family throne, now like a bed grown dim,
Worn by solitude, by dust of hurry borne.
Laughter, a faint echo in a vast, empty space,
Sorrows, scattered islands, where one sinks without grace.
The screens, those glowing boxes, with their bright, cold sheen,
Have become transparent walls, a sorrowful scene,
Keeping hearts once close, now far apart in view.
We touch virtual worlds, strangers we pursue,
While next to us, a being, a shadow has grown.
The blue flame ignites a memory, darkly shown,
It dims the meeting's glow, chills the warm embrace.
Silence is the ruler, at the table's empty place,
Where once life's vibrant din filled every corner's span.
Oh Time, have you stolen innocence from every man?
Are our bonds mere mirages, brief, fleeting steam?
We seek our essence in a pile of clichés,
Turning pages of the past, love's forgotten dream.
Mothers, like fresh springs, the soul's thirst they appease,
Grandmothers, like date palms, giving tales with ease.
But today, these stories, in loud noises lost,
And the frozen wellsprings, in indifference's frost.
Can yesterday's soft flower bloom in today's bright sun?
Can love's old bridge rebuild where cracks have begun?
A return we must have, from solitude's deep sleep,
To rebuild this throne, not of stone, but hands that keep
A gentle touch, a kind word, a gaze full of care.
For family is not just a name written somewhere,
It's the spirit that enlivens, a beacon, a light,
The warmth that thaws reason's cold, dark night,
The mirror telling us who we are, and where we shall go.
Perhaps in every heart, a seed from long ago,
Awaits a spark of care, to blossom and to grow.
Perhaps in every glance, a glimmer of affection,
Awaits a fire to meet, a sweet revelation.
For bonds, like trees, need constant, tender rain,
Fertile soil of loyalty, love's warm, sunlit lane.
Otherwise, the family throne, in a forgotten space,
Will be but a faint echo, without a trace.
#NOUR EDDINE BALIGH#
26-09-2025, 03:34 PM
#Echoes of a Forgotten Throne#
العرض العادي
