By the great poet Dr. Nicolas Fayyad

"The Woman's Voice" is pleased to present this beautiful poem by the orator-poet Dr. Nicolas Fayyad. It belongs to the free verse for which the body of modern poets are calling, and our poet composed it in Paris in the year 1906.

Welcome, winter — though others

see in winter nothing but mourning.

Welcome, winter, while my heart is empty;

I warm myself at the fire in the stillness of the nights,

at rest from love and all its cares.

Here is my solitude — so rise, my heart!

There is no Zaynab here, no Su'ad.

And to the page, O pen! For I have,

in the corners of deep thought, meanings

whose hour has come for day to break upon them.

So I said, taking no account

of what the hand of the fates had hidden.

"A knock at the door!" — who can be knocking

at the door, when it is no hour for visitors

and drowsiness is creeping through the eyelids?

He said to me: Open — it is I, Love. I said:

Be off; I have no business with love, O Love.

He said: The winter's cold is pinching my bones,

the tears of the sky are raining on my body,

and my wing is battered and broken.

In vain you ask to enter, for my soul,

O Love, has long since wearied of you.

I have forgotten the habit of passion and complaint,

the remembering of vows, and kisses;

I have forgotten what your dreaded bow can do.

He said: I have no desire for any fire but yours,

so open the door — argument is useless.

Open the door, for my body is cut through;

and if I die at your door, they will say

of my blood: you alone are to answer.

So he went on, pleading and weeping,

while the raging winds blew wild.

My heart softened toward him, and I said: Come in, then,

O Love, and let it be as you will —

only, I beg you, do not prolong your stay.

In came Love, hurrying toward my fire;

then he gave greeting, his mouth all smiles,

and ran on with talk, quite unabashed,

boasting of his blaze and his anklets,

and of all the tears and blood he had won.

By your life, have you ever seen hair like mine,

golden, pure as a sunbeam?

Or a cheek smooth as mine, or glances like mine

when I let them fly at the carefree heart?

By your life — have you looked at me closely?

The matter was settled between us, and in my house

Love fell to telling whatever tales he pleased.

He bolted the door, secure in my keeping,

forgetting to go back the way he came —

and I... I forgot to open the door.

Paris, November 1906