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"The Light That Doesn’t Shout: A Meditation on Love in the Poetry of Mohy El-Din Mahmoud Hafez" By Amany El-Sawy There are poems that whisper into the soul, and "المحبّة" ("Love") by Mohy El-Din Mahmoud Hafez is one of them which distills love into its purest form—not a word, not a gesture, but a presence that lingers in silence and glows in the shadows. Hafez's verses breathe with quiet grace, revealing love as a tender art of nearness—staying without suffocating, speaking without sound, and vanishing without absence. And just when the poem feels wholly human, it opens like a stained-glass window to the divine. A Muslim voice whispers love to Jesus, not as doctrine, but as recognition—of light in pain, of mercy in presence. Here, faith bends not to division but to awe, and love becomes the thread that binds soul to soul, and all souls to God. This poem doesn’t speak; it listens—and in that listening, we are transformed. It simply stands, like candlelight in a quiet room, illuminating what we often fail to name. Hafez does not define love; he reveals it. Not in thunderous words or vows carved in stone, but in the tremor of a voice, the tilt of an eye, the hush between heartbeats. Love, he tells us, is not what is said, but what is felt in absence, understood in silence, and held gently without the need to grip. In this world that clings to spectacle, he offers us softness: "To love is not to conquer, but to lean in without pressing./ To remain near, without noise./ To be forgotten by none, even when unspeaking." There is an elegance in this restraint, a grace in this quiet nearness. Hafez’s vision of love is less a firework than a flickering oil lamp—steady, sacred, and warm. Nonetheless, the poem deepens—shifts—from the human to the divine, without rupture. In the most luminous passage, the speaker, a Muslim, turns with open heart to Jesus, not in contradiction, but in reverence: "I am Muslim, O Jesus, but I love you." love becomes a bridge between faiths, a tender rebellion against all that divides. In Jesus’s suffering, he sees not only pain, but radiance. In his story, he glimpses the universal ache—and the universal light. This is not theology; it is soul-language. Moreover, the final chords of the poem echo softly: “God is love.” Not as a slogan, not as dogma, but as a hush of understanding. A truth that hovers above creed and ritual. Love becomes the true liturgy. Form mirrors spirit. The poem moves with stillness—short lines, spare words, like steps taken barefoot through sacred space. No flourish, no thunder. Just clarity. Just breath. Just being. To conclude, in "المحبّة", Hafez does not ask us to perform love. He asks us to become it. To dim the world’s harsh light so that another soul may rest. To speak without sound. To stay without weight. To witness the divine, not in heavens far away, but in the softness of staying close without demanding. This is not a poem. It is a prayer that forgot it was one.
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