Windows into the void

Our Faces in the Mirrors
By Qayss Ramli

Don’t you agree?
Your past did not bear the features of who you are today,
and it never crossed your mind that one day, after many years,
you would find yourself gazing at these words through a small screen,
strapped to your wrist — as if it were a prophecy from the future.

You used to fear the unknown,
to hide your anxiety about a tomorrow that hadn’t yet arrived,
without realizing that what you feared was patiently waiting for you,
and that your steps had been leading you toward it all along,
without your awareness.

Look now — see where the path has brought you.
Who guided you to this very place you stand in?
Was it life that steered you,
or were you simply following your intuition —
those slow, deliberate steps with which you unknowingly shaped your destiny?

This journey is not one we plan;
it plans us.
It places us in stations we never dreamed of reaching,
and reveals to us versions of ourselves we never knew existed.

Tomorrow morning,
when you stand before the mirror,
look closely at the person facing you.
Study his eyes carefully and ask him:
Who are you now?

How much of what you see is truly you,
and how much has been sculpted by life —
through its joys and its wounds,
its quiet losses that left invisible marks upon your soul?

Life has changed us more than we ever imagined.
It has altered how we see things,
reshuffled our priorities,
and stripped away our naive innocence —
only to gift us something greater:

something called understanding —
though it often comes blended with disappointment.

Now, perhaps you hold a fragment of truth —
never the whole of it,
for absolute truth is granted to no one.

But it is enough to recognize
that you are no longer who you were,
and that tomorrow,
you will not be who you are today.

Each day reshapes you slowly,
like a river carving its path through stone —
in silence and patience.

And with the passing of years,
you will once again stand before the mirror
and see someone smiling back at you —
someone you don’t entirely recognize,
yet who somehow still resembles you.

Perhaps that reflection
is what remains of you —
or perhaps it is
who you were always meant to become.

Contemplation
By Qayss Ramli

The question existed long before existence itself took form or meaning:
Who holds dominion — the mind that steers the body like a captain his ship,
or the body that dictates to the mind its wild desires and mortal limits?

Yet what troubles me runs deeper than this eternal debate —
a question far more elusive, and perhaps far more truthful:
Do the days drag us toward destinies we never wrote,
or are we the ones dragging them behind us, blind to our final destination?

I stand at the edge of two opposites:
a consciousness that screams I am bound by the chains of fate,
and a wish that whispers within my soul that I am free —
a bird flying without a sky.

So I ask:
Am I a prisoner inside a pre-drawn circle,
or merely a fleeting detail in the stories of others —
leaving a mark like an engraving on stone,
while they pass through me like wind leaving no trace?

Or am I, in truth,
a being walking with a borrowed memory,
carrying echoes of a life I never lived,
catching a glimpse of its owner in a flash of recollection,
only to lose him the next moment?

Am I today nothing but the inevitable result of my past?
And will I remain a captive of that past
in the future that has yet to arrive?

An old friend once told me confidently,
“I know you completely.”
Yet I drown in my own ignorance of myself.

And when I stand before the mirror,
I ask that strange reflection, “Who are you?”
It smiles back at me —
with a wonder I no longer recognize.

I Drag My Heart Into the Air
By Qayss Ramli

I drag my heart into the open air
as one drags a stubborn dog
to a walk it doesn’t want.

Each morning, I slap it
with a dose of life,
teach it the lesson of hope,
but it only yawns lazily
and turns its back to the light.

It tries to escape
the cage of my ribs,
as if it were a sigh
searching for wings,
longing to become a cloud
wandering through a boundless sky.

But it isn’t a breath—
it’s a mass of feelings inside me,
an eternal prisoner,
pounding the walls of my chest
like a mischievous child
unaware of my pain.

And as time passes through me,
I collapse, weary, into my silence.
I pick up my heart once more,
carry it toward another fate,
chasing mirages…

Yet in the distance,
I glimpse a faint shimmer
reminding me that I’m still alive.
So I begin again—
searching for myself
on this earth
so empty of justice.

Letters on Yellow Leaves
By Qayss Ramli

Autumn is the truest farewell letter—
the language of nature
as it writes its final messages
on yellow leaves.

Its voice is the faint trace of henna
on the hand of a bride
who has bid her youth farewell forever.

It is the bell that tolls before the end,
the call that reminds us
of eternal love
and inevitable solitude.

In autumn, the light dies,
queens fall,
and the journey into the unknown begins—
draped in darkness.

Beneath the embrace of farewell,
queen bees perish,
and nature waits
for the spring to return.

Autumn holds the images of endings:
flowers wither,
leaves fall,
and the earth wraps itself in sorrow.

And we…
we live through autumn
awaiting another birth—
when the light returns.

Since I Knew You
By Qayss Ramli
October 2023

Since I knew you,
I opened my arms to you
like a child welcoming life for the very first time.

I was drowning in my love for you—
so deeply
that I went blind
to the nails you drove into my chest,
and to the roadside
where you left me,
like a small Christ without miracles.

I bled everything from my heart
until its springs ran dry,
and I remained like the trunk of a severed palm tree—
hard on the outside,
but within me dwells
a winter of betrayal,
with no spring,
no warmth.

And now winter has returned once more,
to pass through me,
clothe me again
in cold
and solitude—
as it does every year.

The Bet
By Qayss Ramli

As John held the horse’s reins, leading it with steady steps toward the racetrack, he turned to her and said in a voice that carried both hope and risk:

“If you win today, I’ll earn ten times what I own… I’ve bet everything on your horse.”

He smiled before she could grasp the weight of his words, his eyes clinging to hers.

“I know I’m the only one who chose your horse, but my real bet isn’t on the horse… it’s on you.”

When she stood at the starting line, moments before the gunshot split the horizon, Arij lifted her gaze toward him and said with a clarity that allowed no doubt:

“You’ll win either way.”

John froze—his heart nearly stopped.
He understood the message: either the money… or her.

“If the horse wins, you’ll gain the fortune. But if I lose the race—you’ll win me.”

He hesitated.
Should he wish for her to lose so he could escape bankruptcy?
Or should he hope she’d win—losing everything he owned, yet perhaps gaining her forever?

In that instant, he realized that no one can win everything at once.
Money burdens time,
time devours opportunity,
and she—she was running not just to win,
but to save herself.

He knew that hard beginnings are what give the future its strength.
Time was on his side for now,
but at the finish line, it would no longer belong to either of them.
Both were watching the end approach,
both knowing that every ending is merely another beginning.

And when the race was over,
each walked away holding fragments of shattered dreams,
leaving behind what was once closest to the heart.

Five years later,
John discovered that Arij had given him something she herself could never keep—
something distant from her,
yet the closest thing to his heart.

I Don’t Find My Things Easily
By Qayss Ramli
Winter 2024

I don’t find my things easily.
They often stand right before me—
and I don’t see them.

Not because I am blind of sight,
nor blind of heart—as people say,
but because I imagine they run away from me
to places
I would never think to search.

And so,
with all my foolishness,
my things surprise me after long exhaustion—
with loud, teasing laughter.
I stare at them,
smiling like an idiot,
while my heart quietly weeps.

Days and experiences
can shape you
until you no longer resemble others—
except in form.
They leave within you
the color of fear,
the sound of farewell,
and the scent of betrayal—
woven into your very nature.

Next time,
I won’t look for my things.
I’ll wait for them—

as the spider waits,
without boredom,
and without hope.

A Heart That Became a Graveyard
By Qayss Ramli

How near the graveyard is… and how far life feels.

On a Friday afternoon, I was walking slowly toward a secluded place where one could hear nothing but the whisper of nature.
The air was damp, scented with the earthy smell of rain-soaked soil.
Dry leaves cracked beneath my steps in silence.
I wore a black suit, a black shirt, and black shoes.
Even my perfume was cheap—
as if I no longer needed to show myself anything but my naked truth.

Black wasn’t a passing choice.
Since the moment my sight turned inward, I began to see it on walls and in my night sky.
It became the only color left in my life.
All that remained of my past were wounds that refused to heal, and faded images clinging to memory.

I sat, blaming her—
that stubborn self—
for hope, for longing, for honesty, for faithfulness.
I wept as I opened my shirt, showing her my wounds.
She said nothing.
Silence covered her,
and grief clothed her as black clothed me.

Then, the stillness was broken by the sound of a bird nearby.
Its song struck the very core of my solitude—
like the cry of a lover echoing through the hollow of years.
I looked at it with tired, tearful eyes.
It fluttered its wings and flew south, landing on a distant branch, chirping again—insistently.
A strange feeling overwhelmed me, urging me to follow.
It leapt from tree to tree, glancing back as if to make sure I was still behind.

I followed until I reached the tree it perched beneath.
There, on the damp earth, I saw its tiny fledglings—
fragile, still, their bodies cold as if life had only just left them.
The smell of wet grass mingled with the chill of dead feathers,
intensifying the weight of the moment.

I looked up at the bird,
and our eyes met.
For a brief instant, I no longer heard its chirping,
but a faint human voice—
as though rising from a deep well:

“O human, find me a nest, and lay my little ones in it—gently.”

My heart trembled,
fear ran through my veins.
Had I lost my sanity?

I reached down and picked up the little ones, one by one.
Their wet feathers clung to my fingers;
their coldness sank into my palms,
as though I were lifting my own co**se, not theirs.
I looked back at the bird, pretending to search for a nest.

But this time, its voice pierced me again—
firm, sorrowful, almost like a muffled sob:

“Don’t look for one.
Lay them inside yourself…
for your heart has become a graveyard.”

I froze where I stood.
A crushing weight pressed against my chest,
and I realized the bird hadn’t asked me to save its young—
it had handed me a mirror.

In it, I saw myself—
empty of hope,
empty of desire.
For now I am a tomb,
and within me—
a graveyard.

Hunger
By Qayss Ramli

Can wishes alone satisfy the hunger of the poor?
Perhaps not. Yet when they blend with determination, they become bread for the soul and sustenance for the journey.

From childhood, Dania knew the taste of hunger.
Not the hunger of the stomach alone, but a deeper one—
a hunger that gnawed at her heart every night.

She studied by the dim light of a candle,
while the sound of rain dripped through the cracks of their worn-out roof.
Beside her, her younger siblings huddled around their mother, trying to forget the cold.
Her father would come home exhausted, carrying his wooden shoeshine box and brushes,
the smell of polish preceding his steps.
Sometimes he placed a piece of bread in her hand;
other times, only a silent smile.
But what she longed for was not bread—
she longed for the day she would stand on a stage,
people applauding her,
and her father realizing that he had not polished shoes in vain.

Dania grew up carrying that hunger inside her—
the hunger of a dream.
There was no room for studying in their small house,
so she chose a corner of the kitchen,
where she kept her books and papers.
Her siblings didn’t play much;
they whispered so as not to disturb her.
And whenever she heard the laughter of neighborhood children outside,
she tightened her grip on her pen and whispered to herself:
I will sacrifice as they do. One day, we will taste the fruit.

…And that day came.

Dania stood on the graduation stage, holding a certificate of excellence.
But she held far more than a paper—
she carried twenty years of hunger, cold, and tears.
She lifted her eyes to the crowd and said,
her voice steady despite the trembling of her heart:

“I am the daughter of poverty.
My father shines shoes—perhaps he once knelt to polish the shoes of some among you.
I lived in a house barely fit for life,
but my hunger was never for food—
it was for a dream.
And today, I satisfy that hunger with my success.”

The hall erupted in applause.
Dania raised her hands in gratitude, tears glistening in her eyes, and continued:

“I dedicate this success to my father and mother—
the two lamps that lit my path.
To my siblings, who sold their childhood for the price of my silence,
when I studied in a small corner of our home—
a place we called the kitchen.

I did not reach this point by my effort alone,
but through a poor family who believed
that dreams can be worth more than bread.

Today, I walk into the future holding my father’s, my mother’s,
and my siblings’ hands—
together we witness the dawn we’ve awaited for twenty years.

Thank you to all who made their bodies the bridge
across which my dreams walked.”

Her voice broke with tears,
and the applause rose so high it drowned the hall’s sobs.
Dania stepped down from the stage
and walked to the back where her father stood—
holding his shoeshine box and brushes.
He embraced her tightly—
the embrace of a father who saw his life embodied
in the triumph of his daughter.

Turning to the audience,
Dania raised the box above her head—
as if lifting a crown forged from hardship and honor—
and said, her voice trembling with pride and tears:

“With this box… we made the dream come true.”

The box was no longer a tool of labor.
It had become a symbol—
a symbol of the sweat of hands,
the dignity of the poor,
and the power to turn mud-covered shoes
into dreams that walk upon a ground of light.

The Equation of Power
By Qayss Ramli
The Dynamics of Supremacy in an Age of Transformation

The contemporary equation of power is embodied in a complex global scene, where major nations race toward technological and strategic supremacy. While the United States continues to lead the global stage in technological innovation, other powers—most notably Russia, Turkey, and China—are steadily enhancing their capabilities in silence, far from the spotlight.

In this era defined by artificial intelligence and the ease of information exchange, many strategic movements remain concealed, foretelling surprises that may once again reshape the balance of global power.

Technological innovations are no longer mere gradual developments; they have become live experiments applied directly in potential conflict zones—particularly across the Middle East and Asia. The defining feature of this period is the unprecedented speed of technological imitation and replication, which renders precise strategic planning, along with the ability to initiate and decisively conclude military operations, a critical determinant of who will dominate the global scene.

The coming decade will not simply extend what has preceded it; it will mark a decisive turning point—one that reorders global power and imposes a new strategic reality. Within this emerging order, great powers will compete for both technological and operational superiority, demanding a profound understanding of the shifting dynamics of power in the twenty-first century.

Emptiness
By Qayss Ramli

One night, I slipped into an old café whose doors had been shut since 1937—
abandoned after its last visitors vanished.
I sat alone, sipping my bitter black coffee.
No shadow passed the door,
no voice rose above the deep, echoing silence that haunted the place.

Then suddenly, a figure appeared—
a guest whose features I knew well,
though his name eluded me.
He sat across from me, holding an empty cup.
And when my eyes met his,
I remembered—
he was Emptiness.

He smiled faintly and spoke in a soft, unadorned voice,
stripped of all pretense:
— “Why do you follow me as if you were my shadow?”
— “Why do you watch me?”
— “Why do you spend your days longing to meet me?”

I found no answer in his solemn presence.
His silence was louder than any speech.
I reached for his hand, lifted it to my lips, and kissed it—a kiss of life.
Then I rose with quiet dignity and said:

“I’ve missed you, Emptiness.
I feel your presence now…
Am I truly you?
Am I the one who loved you,
who longed to remain with you,
who fell from life
and was caught in your arms?
Hold me close—
for to live through you is better
than to remain a prisoner of thoughts about you.”

Emptiness rose from his chair—
tall, graceful, wrapped in a black coat that exhaled the scent of solitude.
He stepped toward me with steady, deliberate movements,
like a coffin descending into its final place.
Then he opened his arms
and embraced me.

In that moment, I passed from self to void—
from something to nothing,
from noise to stillness,
from the illusion of fullness
to the solid truth of nothingness.

And as my soul settled between his coat and his chest,
I felt the void coil around my neck.
Before his voice dissolved into the silence of the café,
he whispered in my ear:

“You are Emptiness.
Enjoy your solitude.
Be healed by it.
And die as you were born—alone.
But remember one thing:
I do not accept companions.
Stay free of love and hate,
of envy and desire.
Remain pure… until the end of the road.”

I returned to my room,
turned off the lamp,
and lay down as one prepares for the final crossing.
When I closed my eyes,
I saw Emptiness pull a wooden chair beside my pillow.
He sat quietly,
as though the entire night had gathered within his stillness,
then leaned toward me and whispered:

“Sleep peacefully…
I am your faithful guardian.
No one else will keep watch over you.”

My Fiftieth Birthday
By Qayss Ramli

At the threshold of fifty,
one stands as if gazing into a mirror covered with dust—
seeing their own face through the cracks of time,
while old features peer back, asking softly:
Were you a passerby… or truly a resident of your own life?

There, between a spring that slipped away without farewell
and an autumn approaching with the calm steps of wisdom,
the leaves of illusion begin to fall,
and only the roots remain—
those that never bowed to the storms.

At fifty,
the noise fades,
and the heart learns not to fear solitude,
but to discover it as the truest companion.

At fifty,
one must bid farewell to the shadows of disappointment
and open new windows to the sun—
even if it is the sun of dusk.
For what is the worth of spring
if it remains trapped in an unwatered memory?

At fifty,
mistakes become distant tales,
regret a fleeting ghost that waves from afar, then disappears.
You realize that some dreams
are lovelier while fluttering in the sky
than when caged in your hands.

Love does not vanish—
it simply changes form:
it becomes a long gaze that understands everything,
a silent smile,
a touch that tells what words could not.

Hope does not die—
it simply slows its pace,
walking gently,
as if it knows that haste steals from life its essence.

In this coming autumn,
the soul blooms again,
but in softer shades—
like a sunset unwilling to end.

Even death
is no longer an enemy,
but a distant traveler sending signals from the horizon.
We prepare a place for him in our hearts—
not with fear,
but with serenity.

Welcome, O autumn,
friend of wisdom and companion of calm.
Take me away from the clamor of life,
and guide me toward the simplest moments of bliss.

Let me turn away from the ornaments of the world,
to touch its essence instead.
Let me breathe your gentle air,
and embrace the remnants of longing within my chest.

At the threshold of fifty,
we do not grow old—
we ascend.
We do not wither—
we finally see ourselves,
as though standing at the beginning of the mirror,
not at its end.