The Garden of Return

تَسْكُنُ العَوَاصِفُ لِأَنَّ شَيْئًا فِيهَا يَتْرُكُ وَثَاقَهُ.
وَلَيْسَ العَفْوُ نِسْيَانًا وَلَا عُذْرًا،
بَلْ هُوَ رِفْقَةُ التَّخَلِّي عَمَّا لَمْ يَعُدْ حَدًّا وَلَا حِرْزًا.

Storms quieten only because something within them lets go.
To forgive is not to forget or excuse—
it is the companionship of letting go of what no longer serves as boundary.

قَدْ تَرَكْتَ بُسْتَانَاتِ الرَّحْمَةِ لِتَقَلُّبِ الفُصُولِ،
وَلٰكِنَّ الأَشْجَارَ لَا تَنْسَى أَسْمَاءَ زُوَّارِهَا.
فَإِنْ كَانَ الزَّمَانُ جَنَّةً،
فَإِنَّ النِّسْيَانَ لَيْسَ فَقْدًا،
وَإِنَّمَا هُوَ شِتَاءٌ—
صَامِتٌ، ضَرُورِيٌّ،
وَيَتْلُوهُ لَا مَحَالَةَ ذَوْبَانٌ وَخُضْرَةٌ.

You abandoned orchards of mercy because the seasons changed;
yet the trees still remember you.
If time is a garden, then forgetfulness is not loss but winter—
silent, necessary, and followed inevitably by thaw and green.