BIOGRAPHY:
Taghrid Bou Merhi is a Lebanese–Brazilian poet, writer, children’s storyteller, journalist, and translator whose work carries the echoes of multiple cultures and a deeply human spirit. Born in Lebanon and currently living in Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil, she has also spent years in Italy and Switzerland, experiences that enriched her Arab heritage with a universal outlook. She writes poetry, prose, articles, and studies in thought, society, and religion, and is fluent in six languages: Arabic, English, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish.
She has published 23 books and translated 47 works between Arabic and other languages. Her writings appear in over 260 anthologies, and her works have been translated into 49 languages. Taghrid heads the translation departments of more than 15 international journals and is recognized for her refined translations that preserve the soul of the original text. A cultural ambassador, international judge, and award-winning literary figure, she is among the most prominent Arab women writers in the diaspora.
ANTHEM OF THE PASSERSBY
I am a passerby among the shadows,
carrying in my palm the trembling of distances,
I look into the mirrors of cities,
and the names fall from my lips…
No faces embrace me,
no voice writes me upon the walls of dawn,
I move alone,
as if I were a wind crossing the corridors of memory,
shaking off the dust of departure from doors,
and lighting lanterns of silence for the absent.
Was I a star lost from its galaxy?
Or a string whose tune the musician forgot?
The streets mingle beneath my feet,
and there is no difference
between their beginnings and their curves,
as if directions were broken mirrors,
and as if the sky were ink spilling on paper.
Oh, that I could gather myself,
assemble the scattered chapters,
return to the beginning of the story,
where I was a note
in the heart of a cloud.
SEASONS OF WAITING
I am a woman arranging my braids
on the balcony of night,
waiting for a man
who stumbled over his old dreams
and never arrived…
I prepare for him a cup of my silence,
decorate the table
with candles of memory,
and leave the door of the poem ajar,
hoping he might pass through…
In the morning,
I sweep away my disappointments
and paint a smile on my window
as if I hadn’t shed a tear yesterday,
as if I hadn’t walked alone
through the corridors of long waiting…
They say passion tastes like pomegranate,
but I have tasted nothing but bitterness,
nothing has bloomed in my hands but emptiness,
and the passersby have left me
only their shadows…
I am a woman hurt by stories
where love ends
before it begins,
where light is stolen
before it can overflow the horizon…
The shadow of absence has grown over my soul,
and sorrow now has a voice
that counts the nights with me,
and there is a time that pulls me backward,
preventing me from escaping
to where no one follows…
SONG OF HORIZON
In the embrace of nature, souls breathe,
as if the trees were pulpits of wisdom,
teaching us that roots are the secret of survival,
and that bending to the wind is strength, not weakness.
The sky is a mirror of the infinite,
casting into our eyes secrets unreadable by words,
revealed through the clarity of silence.
The river flows like time that never returns,
embracing the banks, then leaving them,
reminding us that love is a fleeting gift,
and that loss is part of the cycle of existence.
In the dewy grass dwell hidden tales,
every leaf trembling like a heart searching for certainty,
and every flower opening like a window onto the unseen.
Nature is not an ornament for the eye,
it is an open book written by God
with the ink of light and shadow.
Every bird rising into the horizon
carries in its wings the philosophy of freedom,
teaching us that the horizon is not an end,
but another beginning of the journey.
The mountain teaches silence,
saying: greatness is not measured by voice,
but by steadfastness when the earth collapses around you.
And the sea teaches humility,
hiding its depths so as not to frighten us,
smiling with its waves as a child smiles in its mother’s arms.
In the splendor of nature, we discover ourselves,
we see that we are passing particles,
yet we carry within us the meaning of the whole universe.
SHADOWS OF WAITING
I was listening to a shadow that expands
through the corridors of the night,
as if distance is not measured in steps
but by the trembling of the soul.
What is this voice passing through my window?
Is it the echo of the absent,
or the illusion of my heart recalling faces
that dwell in the corners of memory?
I search for you in the restless wind,
I trace your features upon the clouds,
yet the rain does not fall
except to flood my solitude.
Darkness reshapes time,
time stumbles in its steps,
and I, on the edge of longing,
wait for one who does not come.
All paths have no signs,
all doors have no handles,
as if the world has decided to forget
the dreams of those who pass by.
The sky is weighed down with unanswered questions,
and the earth holds its breath
fearing the dawn might shatter
before it is born.
I converse with the night in its silence,
it calls me and then lowers its veil,
I reach out for your light,
but find nothing
except a tremor
that inhabits my fingers.
My friend,
what journey is this that swallows your steps?
What appointment is this that was never meant
to be fulfilled?
I continue to plant my time
in fields of waiting,
hoping the song hidden in my chest
will one day find someone to hear it,
and awaken the birds from their silence.
THE STONE
It is not a mute inanimate thing we tread upon,
it is the first awareness,
the breath of being when it opened to fear and hunger,
and existence trembled, searching for a meaning to survive.
The stone was not a weapon,
it was a question in the hand of the first human:
how to live in the face of extinction?
He struck stone against stone, and light was born.
From its spark came the tale,
and from its warmth was shaped the language of fire—
a language that preceded letters and books.
The stone was a home before homes were built,
a womb that sheltered the body in its solitude,
a roof that guarded his dreams from the nakedness of night.
It is the memory of the earth, inscribed
with lines of blood and sweat,
with faces that passed and cries that remained,
and a trace of love that slipped
through the wrinkles of its silence.
It is the first mirror:
in it, man saw his naked image,
and learned to confront himself
as he confronted the beast.
It is the universe embodied in a mass,
a sky without a name,
an earth without borders,
a symbol before symbols existed.
O Stone,
you, who do not speak,
were the first philosopher.
You taught us that silence is deeper than speech,
and that matter is not against the spirit,
but rather its path to revelation.
You are the eternal lesson:
that existence begins from a small weight
and stretches into infinity…