Jordan: A Living Poem
By [Lamar Al-adaileh]
Stone, Star, and Soul
From ancient dust where statues rose,
In Ain Ghazal, where no river flows,
Clay souls stared with hollow grace
The first of faces, the first of place.
Before the pyramids touched the sand,
This land held dreams in open hand.
A cradle carved in breath and fire,
Where man first shaped his heart’s desire.
In Moab’s cliffs and Edom’s veins,
Prophets wept through sacred plains.
Lot and Moses found their fate
On Jordan’s shores, near heaven’s gate.
The olive trees saw everything
The rise of kings, the fall of spring.
Their twisted limbs and rooted gaze
Have held the truth through endless days.
The Nabataeans carved their grace
In Petra’s stone—a timeless face.
From crimson rock and ancient stream,
They built a world, they built a dream.
The Rose-Red City, lost, then found,
Still speaks in echoes through the ground.
Rome brought arches, marble breath,
Jerash bloomed with life and death.
Chariots raced, the columns soared,
Emperors’ shadows kissed the floor.
Then came the crescent and the call,
And Jordan stood, yet changed for all.
Castles crowned the mountain’s edge
Karak rose with rebel pledge.
Ajloun stood in forest shade,
Saladin’s hand in stone was laid.
The Ottoman dusk rolled slowly in,
But Jordan’s fire burned deep within.
Steel rails cracked, a flag was raised,
The Arab voice no longer fazed.
The Great Revolt began to climb
A march through dust, defying time.
In forty-six, a crown took hold,
A Hashemite line, proud and bold.
And Amman rose, where hills entwine,
A city etched in stone and spine.
Its souks breathe spice, its citadel high
Looks down with history in its eye.
Where past and progress sweetly rhyme,
And modern feet walk ancient time.
To Irbid, bride of northern light,
Where olives shimmer, bold and bright.
Fields of thought and groves embrace,
And scholars speak with patient grace.
A land where books and blossoms grow,
And wisdom blooms in morning glow.
Zarqa stirs with smokestack song,
A city where the strong belong.
Engines hum, machines reply,
Yet gentle hearts in steel still lie.
The iron pulse, the factory’s flame,
But every face a human name.
Salt glows gold in Balqa’s light,
A prophet’s path in softened night.
Each cobbled street, each arched abode,
Tells stories time has never owed.
In every gaze, a whispered tale,
Where faith and memory never pale.
Madaba lays her prayers in stone,
A map of heaven gently sewn.
Each tile a verse, each saint a spark,
A sacred flame within the dark.
Where ancient hands with quiet grace
Made mosaics hum like sacred space.
Karak stands with watchful pride,
Her castle gripped the battle tide.
Crusaders, rebels, side by side,
Left echoes in her mountains wide.
Stone on stone, her courage stays,
A monument to iron days.
Tafilah breathes a softer word,
Her streams like songs too long unheard.
The rebel paths, the whispered names,
Still linger in her quiet flames.
No fanfare loud, no banners fly
Yet strength walks gently in her sky.
Ma’an, where silence shapes the sound,
Where dignity is desert-bound.
A trading heart, a sacred flame,
With Bedouin soul and honored name.
And just beyond, in rust and rose,
Where time itself forgets to close
Wadi ***, a Martian dream,
A red-hued realm, a silent scream.
Its sandstone moons and copper scars
Yes, Wadi ***’s a piece of Mars.
And Aqaba, where waters gleam,
A port, a pearl, a sailor’s dream.
The coral sways in jeweled tide,
And all the sea and stars collide.
A city carved from sun and foam,
Where ocean traders call it home.
Jerash holds the Roman breath,
Its colonnades outlasted death.
The temples lean, the theaters yearn,
For chariots that won’t return.
But stone remembers every part
Each pillar hums with ancient heart.
Ajloun sings in forest green,
Where castles sleep and falcons lean.
A rebel’s perch, a cedar’s shade,
A prayer within the woods was laid.
Its pines recite what warriors knew:
That honor grows where arrows flew.
Mafraq spreads like desert sky,
Where roads and fates together lie.
A place of kin, of tent and tea,
Where border fades in unity.
A meeting point, a tribal thread,
Where stories start, and never dead.
And near the shore where salt collects,
A sea of mirrors still reflects.
Though lifeless named, it softly gives
The Dead Sea still, yet deeply lives.
A sacred hush, a timeless tide,
Where every weight is set aside.
The people walk through all of this
With every step, a prayer, a kiss.
They dance the dabke, feet like drums,
Where rhythm rises, freedom hums.
They pour the coffee, slow and wise,
With welcoming in ancient eyes.
They serve mansaf, bold and warm with pride,
Where jameed flows like salted tide
A feast not just of meat and grain,
But heritage on porcelain plain.
The keffiyeh wraps both sun and shade,
A flag of love the people made.
In red and black, in checkered pride,
They wear their story on the side.
Their hands build futures, stone by stone,
Their hearts belong where roots have grown.
The olive trees have seen it all
The harvest joy, the funeral call.
From weddings lit by lantern flames
To whispered cries and unmarked names.
They hold the silence in their bark,
They are the scribes when all is dark.
And in the air, the voices rise
Of poets, rebels, thinkers wise.
Arar, the flame of untamed verse,
Who blessed the poor, who cursed the curse.
Nasrallah’s ink drew epic streams
Of history told through smoky dreams.
Faqir wrote of woman’s pain,
A voice like thunder in the rain.
Sboul broke silence with one line
Then left the world before his time.
And Samiha wove the past anew,
In heroines that burned right through.
From mind to hand, invention grew
Al-Tal sparked light the wires knew.
Zughoul explored what meaning meant,
And Hassan built with calm intent.
A royal mind, a peaceful hand,
A scholar shaping sacred land.
Jordan—small upon the map,
Yet vast beneath her heritage wrap.
From Dead Sea hush to northern pine,
Her soul is stitched in every line.
She is the tray passed to a guest,
The keffiyeh folded on a chest.
The poet’s cry, the soldier’s plan,
The child who draws peace in the sand.
A land of dust, of lore, of flame,
Of thousand tribes with one true name.
She is not just a flag to raise
She is a poem of endless days.
Stone, star, and soul, beneath God’s dome
Jordan is not a land.
She is a poem.
