(photo of Amirah Al Wassif)




for those who donÕt know chocolate!


for those who donÕt know chocolate

the children of poverty

and the sleepers in the corners of ancient streets

for those who survive famines but are still hungry

for those boys who never dream

because they never sleep

for those who donÕt know chocolate

but only heard rumors about its sweetness

the people with half a soul

who lack food and live in imaginary houses

for those who crawl on the sharp platforms at

midnight day after day

seeking the warmth to live

for those babies who have never tasted milk

who stare with wide eyes looking for any help

for the hands of charity

and the sensitive hearts which cry and bleed

for those who gather in the torn tents around the world

waiting such a long time

for those who donÕt know chocolate

and havenÕt the ability to imagine it

for the innocent faces washed by the rain

for the seekers of the smell of humanity in each dark alley

for those who kiss the sun through their contemplative


for those who write with heavy hearts and crushed dreams

the climbers of existenceÕs shoulder

looking for the face of justice

for the dancers with bare feet on EverestÕs peak

who do their best to bring joy and peace

for the sun of tolerance warming our bones

for the bloom of the flowers

amidst the skyÕs gloom

for those who never tasted chocolate

but have heard about its magic

the crawlers of the earth with their great desire

to make the difference between the past and future

for those who draw in the sand

with belief in their friendship with the waves of the sea

for the people murdered in every battle

for the injured soldiers in every war

for those women who havenÕt the right to vote

for the mothers who have no voice

for the fishermen in their ships

for the highest star in our sky

and for the rainbow

for those people with disabilities

and for those players with woolen balls

for the little boys who sell water

for the little girls who feed the roosters

for the nations which suffer from drought

for the victims of racism

for the dead murdered by terrorism



before my death!


before my death,

I would like to sit beside an innocent homeless girl

in front of one of the UNICEF banners

in our hungry wide street

talking together about the biscuits

and the magnificent toys and the ice cream

before my death,

I will try my best to make her

taste childhoodÕs flavors

and she will try her best

to draw a false smile on her face

and because her cheeks will be

a mix of rosy and dirty

I will convince myself that

she is very happy!

before my death,

I would like to kiss all the flowers

especially the lilacs

I will be able to toss my grief aside

hoping to find a supernatural sign

one of those upper signs

which touches us gently

one of those upper signs

which take our souls for a long fabulous walk for free

before my death,

I would like to laugh in a loud tone

because I will be close enough to the political posters

which will hang everywhere

and I will sing one last song

for love and freedom

and I will dedicate it to the lonely and the frightened

and the immigrants and the dreamers

before my death,

I would like to toss

the most creative jokes

among the boys and girls

and I will gather the most delicious fruits

sending them to those who used to plant them

but never tasted any!

before my death,

I would like to kiss the famine babies wide-eyed

and saying ÒsorryÓ in another way

I will say it like a poem

escaped from the bottom of my heart

and appears of itself

in no-words

before my death,

I will praise the woman who works in breaking rocks

who fights in the day

and comes down in the night

an extraordinary woman knows how

to struggle under the angry sun

an extraordinary woman knows

how to fold her begotten clothes

among the mess of rocks

an extraordinary woman knows

how to be a soldier in the battle

and a clown in the theatre at one time

before my death,

I will salute all the women

who work in breaking rocks

I will salute them with love and pity

before my death,

I would like to give

endless tickets

to the orphans around the world

and I will break my ego mirror

getting rid of my old grins

trying to find a true

smile similar to theirs

before my death,

I would like to share my food with a lost dog

in the corner of the road

or in the dirty narrow tavern

before my death,

I will learn how I must live!




a woman looking for a tongue!


they said your voice should not be heard

we need a woman without sound

then I asked my god

o lord, do I count?

and he answered me in short

raise your voice and shout

they said we need a perfect doll

walking and stopping when we want

but I am totally tweety bird

so, I whispered:  no, I cannot

they said the good girl knows how to

close her mouth

she always pretends to ignore seeing

revolutions in the north

or in the south

the good girl used to crawl

she must hide the bright side of her soul

good girl hasnÕt any right

to fight for her vote

the good girl could not contemplate the faint light

in the middle of the road

they said we need a plastic woman

but, I act like a real woman

so, they cried Òbe shyÓ

but, I insist on flying!






To Be a Brilliant Woman in the Third World!


to be a brilliant woman in the third world
you have to not be!
so, if you want the basic tips
kindly listen to me
put your mind in a box
be ready to say every moment ÒagreeÓ
announce your eternal silence
stop whirring like a curious bee
act like a bird in a cage
never dream to get free
donÕt consider obedience as shameful
it is honor getting down on your knee
and about your gifts
is it enough to know all the electrical appliances, kinds of dishes and how to make the tea?
nobody cares about gifts
it is not necessary, it is too wee
donÕt try to laugh aloud
it is perfect to be a tree
and understand that arguments are so dangerous
the best is for a woman is to flee!

to be a brilliant woman in the third world
you have to obey!
your family, your husband, your neighbor, your president
whoever he or she!

you have to stitch and cherish and nourish and never have the chance to flourish!
you have to be silent 
not crying whee!
in your success or if you finally could see!
in the third world 
all you have to be 
is to not be
nobody cares about your gifts
it is enough having a degree
in the obedience lessons
or cooking puree!




a question from the refugee camps


I asked them

How does the sun say hello to everyone?

They laughed bitterly

Without being sorry

And told me Òask the gunÓ

Her red spark

Sharp like the dark

Permits entering the light for none

They asked me Òwhat is the sun?Ó

When our expected meeting will be done?

Since their question

I did not ask again

Because everything was very clear

Through the war stain

There, in the Somali lands you can find the answers

Upon the clouds, in the camps, even on the childrenÕs


There, in the Somali lands all the details written with

no ink

The only truth here requires from you to think

About those people who do not have the fun

But you still ask about their sun?

Among the refugee camps in Baidoa

I found a baby that crawled

On the arm of his mama

Who, it seemed to me, frowned

The baby opened his eyes wide

Looking for the next light

But his mama knows

No light comes without a fight

In a crowd of the lost African bodies

He holds my hand tenderly

He was selling water to the ladies

who were sitting on the docks

With their pots

Waiting for the day - early

In the Somali lands

They asked me

How does the sun say hello to everyone?

I replied with no hesitation

No sun comes with a gun






an urgent call in the second life


red rays of the unknown sun came down to my new window

a warm shiver touched me, made me laugh as a fresh baby

I decided to think about the source of these unknown rays

but, suddenly a kind of musical sound covered my ears

the sound did not seem like any earthly sound I had ever heard

it was a mix of waves and dancers and a creation of colorful birds

it was like a smell of honey and the secrets of gold

red rays of the unknown sun came down to my new window

fingers of nature throw fabulous jokes on my road

all the trees here like mothers, each tree gives me a kind hug

and I call them through songs of paradise

my songs are part of the skies

and my skies are all my world

in my second world, I do not have the time

to put my hand on my chest for wishing

all the clouds here are wishes

and I am a successful creature in hunting them with my glances

red rays of the unknown sun came down to my new window

fields of roses upon my head

rooms in the paradise full of supreme poetry

my soul thrilled at sewing the art of dream

and I am hungry for knocking on the door of memories

I know that nobody will respond

however, I insist on waiting

day after day

night after night

moment after moment

in my second world, I am walking on the roofs with bare feet

listening to the music makers in the tunnels of the heavens

here, we all are children of the upper world

and as a child, I am still awaiting

an urgent call in my new life





my arrogant silence


My arrogant silence looms over me

His voice like a truth

Like a bumble bee

My ears have the sight

Each ear has the right

To see!

It is such a messy heaven

Like taking a breath and being given

The reality of "to be"

I am totally confused about that

Mixing good things and bad

Makes me as an island in the see

And while contemplating

My reality

I found, yes, I am that lonely island in the sea.


© Amirah Al Wassif


Bio:  Amirah is a 28-year-old Egyptian freelance writer. 


She has 2 published English books:

1) for those who donÕt know chocolate;

2) the cocoa boy and other stories.


She has 5 published Arabic books. 


She has written articles, novels, short stories poems and songs. Five of her books were written in Arabic and many of her English works have been published in various cultural magazines such as praxis magazine, the gathering of tribes, credo spoir, reach poetry, Otherwise Engaged literature and arts journal, cannon's mouth, mediterranean poetry, The BeZine, spillwords, Merak Magazine, poetry magazine, writers Resist, the Bosphours Review Of Books, the Writer NewSletter, Call and Response Journal, Echoes Literary Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, Envision Arts, women of strength strong coutage magazine, chirion review, the conclusion magazine, street light press.  Many of her poems and stories have been translated into Spanish, kordish, hindi and Arabic."


You can visit her at: