In Search For Arabs In Cordoba Poem by Mohammad Yousef

In the sun-drenched streets of a thousand whispers,
where the mesquite trees bend under the weight of time,
I wander, a ghost tracing the shadows of history,
through the labyrinth of old stone,
where the air hangs heavy with the scent of orange blossoms.

Here, where the rivers once sang to the moon,
and the stars bore witness to the dance of scholars,
I seek the echoes of a vibrant past,
the laughter of poets, the fervor of philosophers,
the call to prayer that once wove through the city's heart.

The Great Mosque stands, a testament to dreams,
its arches like arms opened wide,
inviting seekers, the lost, the curious,
to step into a tapestry of faith and knowledge,
woven from the threads of a thousand souls.

I pause, tracing my fingers along weathered tiles,
each one a story, a heartbeat, a prayer,
the intricate patterns swirling like thoughts,
as if to say, "We were here,
we lived, we loved, we dreamed."

In the narrow alleys, I hear the whispers,
of poets who danced with words,
and scholars who threaded wisdom into the fabric of existence,
their voices like the gentle rustle of leaves,
calling me deeper into the embrace of their legacy.

I wander past old cafes,
where the aroma of spiced coffee lingers,
its warmth a reminder of gatherings,
of debates that ignited minds,
and laughter that sparkled like sunlight on water.

In the marketplace, vibrant and alive,
I see faces that tell of migration,
of histories mingling like spices in a pot,
the descendants of those who once roamed this land,
seeking solace, seeking home, seeking belonging.

Yet, in the rhythm of the bustling crowd,
I feel a pang, an ache, a longing,
for the stories that have slipped through the cracks,
the voices that have faded into silence,
the legacy that has become a whisper in the wind.

I close my eyes, and for a moment,
I can almost hear the laughter,
the debates, the teachings,
the vibrant pulse of a civilization
that shaped the world with its heart.

In search for Arabs in Cordoba,
I find not just remnants of what was,
but a living, breathing tapestry,
where every thread, every color, every sound,
tells me: "We are still here,
woven into the very fabric of existence."

And as the sun sets, casting golden hues,
I stand, a seeker, a witness,
to the symphony of lives interwoven,
in the heart of a city that remembers,
that dreams, that loves—
Cordoba, a cradle of the forgotten,
and a beacon for the future yet to unfold.