@nissaaseptember12: kasihan siapa nih:⁠'⁠(.....#vilqr

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Friday 23 October 2026 11:44:02 GMT
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Nizar Qabbani was born on March 21, 1923, in Damascus, Syria, into a merchant family in the old city. When he was fifteen, his older sister took her own life rather than marry a man she didn't love, a loss that shaped the rest of his existence. At her funeral, he quietly vowed to spend his life writing love honestly, without the formal distance Arabic poetry had traditionally demanded. He pursued that honesty through decades of diplomatic postings across Cairo, Madrid, London, and Beirut, and through a personal life marked by real, devastating loss. His second wife, Balqis al-Rawi, was killed in a car bombing in Beirut in 1981 during the Lebanese Civil War, an explosion targeting the Iraqi embassy where she worked. Qabbani had wished, like most people in love, for something permanent. What he got instead was proof that permanence was never guaranteed, regardless of how deeply the feeling itself endured. He wrote this line carrying exactly that particular grief, the cruel irony of a love that didn't fade, didn't weaken, didn't require effort to sustain, while the person meant to share it with him was simply no longer there to receive it. The love hadn't failed. It had outlived the very relationship it was built for. He spent his remaining years writing elegies for Balqis, pouring the permanence of his grief into some of the most devastating poetry of his career, proving that sometimes the heart keeps its promise long after circumstance breaks its own. He died on April 30, 1998, in London, having spent his life writing about exactly this gap, between what we wish would last and what actually does. Text- I wished for a lasting love. The love lasted, but the lover left. — Nizar Qabbani  #wisdom #knowledge #freedom #mindset #life
Nizar Qabbani was born on March 21, 1923, in Damascus, Syria, into a merchant family in the old city. When he was fifteen, his older sister took her own life rather than marry a man she didn't love, a loss that shaped the rest of his existence. At her funeral, he quietly vowed to spend his life writing love honestly, without the formal distance Arabic poetry had traditionally demanded. He pursued that honesty through decades of diplomatic postings across Cairo, Madrid, London, and Beirut, and through a personal life marked by real, devastating loss. His second wife, Balqis al-Rawi, was killed in a car bombing in Beirut in 1981 during the Lebanese Civil War, an explosion targeting the Iraqi embassy where she worked. Qabbani had wished, like most people in love, for something permanent. What he got instead was proof that permanence was never guaranteed, regardless of how deeply the feeling itself endured. He wrote this line carrying exactly that particular grief, the cruel irony of a love that didn't fade, didn't weaken, didn't require effort to sustain, while the person meant to share it with him was simply no longer there to receive it. The love hadn't failed. It had outlived the very relationship it was built for. He spent his remaining years writing elegies for Balqis, pouring the permanence of his grief into some of the most devastating poetry of his career, proving that sometimes the heart keeps its promise long after circumstance breaks its own. He died on April 30, 1998, in London, having spent his life writing about exactly this gap, between what we wish would last and what actually does. Text- I wished for a lasting love. The love lasted, but the lover left. — Nizar Qabbani #wisdom #knowledge #freedom #mindset #life

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