Between the Voice and the Nile
I watch a world that never stops speaking,
and a land that answers with silence.
There are nations that express themselves through sound,
and others through time.
Egypt, as I have come to know her, chose time.
In a world eager to explain everything yet slow to understand,
Egypt seems to know more than she says.
Her silence is not absence but presence —
an ancient rhythm moving through the land,
as the Nile moves through memory.
Silence, perhaps, was Egypt’s first language —
spoken before it was written,
understood before it was heard.
While others rush to decide who is right or who has won,
she listens to what lies between,
not to the words, but to what breathes beneath them.
I have never seen Egypt take sides.
She has always existed in the space between —
between desert and sea,
between reason and faith,
between memory and desire.
Balance here is not politics; it is geography turned into wisdom.
Even the Nile seems to remember
how opposites can live in the same current.
Every generation believes it sees the world for the first time,
and every generation, when it looks deep enough,
finds Egypt waiting in the reflection —
still, patient, unchanged.
Not because she refuses to move,
but because she has already walked every path
the world is just beginning to take.
Some people shout to be remembered;
the Egyptian endures quietly.
He carries his story in a joke,
in the patience of fatigue,
in the art of surviving without bitterness.
He does not seek glory, only meaning —
and perhaps that is why he lasts.
When the world grows weary of its own noise,
it will return, once again,
to remember what stillness feels like.
And Egypt will be there —
calm, present,
as if she never left the scene.
The world began in silence,
and perhaps it will only survive through it.
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