Every land has its own rhythm, its own language, its own frequency. And I wondered: where will the rūḥ of Beirut take me?
At the heart of this cheeky little experiment is a quiet observation. Sure theres a sketch and some lines but its a way to see where curiosity can take me.
I was sitting in a coffee shop, watching life unfold, when I noticed a man gazing at an eagle. There was something ancient in his stillness, something reverent… circle of life esque, almost prayerful as his age/approach to death mirrored the eagles hunt. That moment stayed with me. It stirred reflections on the cycle of life: how we hunt, how we take, how we soften, how we begin again.
Rūḥ is both a poem and a painting - a meditation on stillness, on presence, on how the simplest moments can hold the most mythic truths. A man. A bird. A window. And the unseen thread between them.
In Arabic, rūḥ refers to the soul, not just as something internal, but as something shared between beings, between land and sky, between what is seen and what is deeply felt. It is the breath between here and elsewhere. The whisper that reminds us we are more than we appear to be.
Ruh
(The Flight of Faith) by Karimah
“يا رب, where will my soul soar
when this breath is mine no more?”
“O Soul of souls, Keeper of secrets
Hold me close to the winged one,
hold me close to the blazing sun.
With one wing in action, the other in flight,
I choose my steady path
through intelligence, through might.”
He sits where Beirut’s veins unfold,
A café corner, chipped and old.
Qahwa steaming, slow and black,
A fig, a date, a stray cat’s track.
"C’est la vie," he murmurs low,
As sunset bleeds its crimson glow.
"Bonsoir, habibi," comes the call,
A voice wrapped soft in evening’s shawl.
The scent of za’atar haunts the stone,
Cobblestones warm, worn, and known.
The city hums its breath is deep,
With ancient lanes the tires sweep.
Above, an eagle wheels through twilight
He calls her Rūḥ,
soul of the world, mistress of flight.
Her wings cut through rose and dusk,
A thousand years in a single glide,
Ancient rhythms in each tide.
He closes his eyes
The warmth of the cup a tether,
Yet his mind drifts, a weightless feather
“يا رب, where will my soul soar
when this breath is mine no more?”
He sees himself mirrored in her might,
A hunter of memories, veiled in light.
A pilgrim wrapped in time’s mistakes,
The shadow of death upon his face.
Rūḥ dives with fury, claws meet bone,
In the circle of life, the prey is known.
Blood spills into the setting sun,
A life is lost, a rite begun.
She rises, crowned in dusk and flame,
Unmoved by glory, death, or name.
And watching her in crimson sky,
He knows what lives must also die.
Yet in his chest, a fire is stored
A vow, a blaze, a silent chord
The رُوح, the soul, will not ignore
its call to search,
to rise once more.
- Karimah
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