Abti’s Love Poem: A Tale of Unspoken Love

 Abti’s Love Poem

In a quiet Somali village, tucked between acacia trees and sun-baked paths, lived a young boy named Ayaan. He was known for his curious mind and love for stories. But above all, he adored his abti—his mother’s brother—named Abdi.

Abti Abdi wasn’t like other men in the village. While most men worked as herders or traders, Abdi was a poet. He wrote on scraps of old paper, pieces of bark, and sometimes, even on the sand before the wind erased his verses. He spoke with a rhythm that made even the goats pause to listen, and his words carried the beauty of both the desert and the sea.

Every evening, after the sun dipped behind the hills and the stars began to prick the night sky, Ayaan would run to his abti’s hut. There, under the light of a flickering lantern, stories and poems filled the air like incense.

One evening, Ayaan arrived to find Abdi unusually quiet. He was staring at a piece of folded paper, worn and smudged at the edges. His usually vibrant eyes were distant, lost in memory.

“Abti,” Ayaan asked, sitting beside him. “What’s that?”

Abdi smiled softly, as if Ayaan’s voice had brought him back from a distant world. “This,” he said, holding up the paper, “is a love poem. The only one I never read out loud.”

“Why not?”HB

“Because it belongs to someone special. Someone I never told how I truly felt.”

Ayaan’s eyes widened. “Who was she?”

Abdi chuckled, the sound low and nostalgic. “Her name was Sahra. She was like rain in the dry season—rare and beautiful.”

Ayaan leaned forward, curiosity dancing in his eyes. “Can you tell me the story?”

Abdi hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But only if you promise to listen with your heart.”

Ayaan nodded eagerly.

The Story of Sahra

Many years ago, when Abdi was just a young man full of dreams and words, he met Sahra. She had just moved to the village with her family from the coast. Her eyes carried the color of the Indian Ocean, and her smile was brighter than the noon sun.

 

They met by chance. Abdi had been composing a poem by the river when Sahra appeared, carrying a clay pot. She stopped to listen, and when he finished, she said, “That was beautiful. But you forgot to mention the moon.”

Abdi was startled—and impressed.

From that day on, they met often. At the river, in the market, under the big fig tree. They talked about everything—life, dreams, and poetry. Sahra wasn’t just beautiful; she was wise and kind. She understood Abdi’s soul in ways no one else did.

But life, as it often does, brought challenges. Sahra’s father was a strict man who wanted his daughter to marry a wealthy merchant from the next town. He didn’t think much of poets, especially not one who scribbled words instead of stacking coins.

Abdi was heartbroken. He wrote poems filled with longing and pain, but he never gave them to her. He watched as Sahra was married off and taken away, her eyes meeting his one last time as the caravan disappeared into the horizon.

“She never knew how much I loved her,” Abdi whispered, voice cracking.

Ayaan sat silently, feeling the weight of his abti’s sorrow.

“But why didn’t you give her the poem?” he asked.

“I was afraid,” Abdi replied. “Afraid it wouldn’t change anything. Afraid it might hurt her more.”

He unfolded the paper and handed it to Ayaan.

“Would you like to read it?” he asked.

Ayaan held the poem like a treasure and began to read:

To Sahra, the Moon of My Soul

By Abdi

I saw you first beside the river,

Where dreams begin and fears quiver.

You walked like silence through the day,

And stole my foolish heart away.

Your voice was softer than the breeze

That danced among the thorny trees.

Your eyes, they held the ocean's hue—

A world of storms, and stillness too.

You spoke of stars and distant skies,

Of hopes that hid in lovers’ eyes.

You taught me things I never knew—

That love is strong, and deep, and true.

But time, cruel time, would not be kind,

It pulled you from my eager mind.

And words I wrote, I dared not show—

Afraid you'd hurt, afraid you'd know.

Now years have passed, the river’s dry,

But still I see you in the sky.

The moon, your face. The stars, your eyes.

Your laughter echoing in sighs.

If fate is kind in worlds to come,

If hearts once broken still may hum,

Then find me there where dreams begin—

And let me love you once again.

When Ayaan finished reading, the hut was silent except for the sound of the wind brushing against the canvas walls.

“That was beautiful, Abti,” he whispered. “Do you think she ever thought of you?”

Abdi looked out at the night sky. “Maybe. Or maybe not. But I still write for her.”

Days passed, and Ayaan found himself thinking about Sahra often. One afternoon, while visiting the nearby town with his mother, he wandered into a small bookshop. To his amazement, he saw a book of poems titled “Whispers from the Fig Tree”—written by Sahra Ahmed.

He opened it, flipping through the pages until he found a short poem:

To the Poet by the River

By Sahra Ahmed

I heard your words among the leaves,

A song that danced with desert breeze.

You never spoke, but still I knew—

The poet’s heart belonged to you.

Ayaan's heart pounded. He bought the book and ran all the way home.

“Abti!” he shouted, bursting into the hut. “She remembered you! She wrote about you!”

He handed the book to Abdi, who stared at it as if seeing a ghost. Slowly, he read the poem, then held the book to his chest.

“She knew…” he whispered. “All these years… she knew.”

Tears welled in his eyes, but they were not sad tears. They were the tears of a heart finally understood.

Years Later

Ayaan grew up, just like his abti. He became a teacher, a storyteller, and a poet. Every year, he shared the story of his abti and Sahra with his students, teaching them that love doesn’t always follow the paths we want—but it never truly disappears.

Before Abdi passed away, he gave Ayaan the original love poem and said, “Let it live on. Let the world know that poetry can hold love longer than time can.”

And so it did.

Abti’s love poem, once hidden and unread, became a part of village folklore. It was recited at weddings, copied into notebooks, and even painted on the walls of schools. And somewhere, perhaps far from the village, Sahra’s words still echoed in libraries and hearts.

Because love, when true, never dies.

It simply waits to be heard.

The End.