Is he a Syrian poet from Lebanon, or a Lebanese poet from Syria? Perhaps every Arab reader finds a reflection of themselves within him. Nizar Qabbani’s poetry transcends the boundaries of place to become a universal human language. He bore the burden of poetry, even if he did not proselytize through theoretical manifestos. His poem was his declaration, and the love of the people was its highest seal of authenticity. His verse—steeped in fragrance—was never swept away by mere artifice; he remained in perfect harmony with his own spontaneity. He is a goldsmith, not a mere craftsman; a singer drawing from the depths of the forest and the silken intimacy of the bed; and his rhythm is as precise as the weighing of gold. Just as Nizar dipped his pen into the very heart of emotion, so too does duty dictate that we dip our pens into the poetry of Nizar. Yet, alas! Who could ever hope to match the spontaneous flow of his verse? He is the poet of burning longing and stinging wrath—the poet of those moments that glow with the fiercest embers. Our own fire falls short of yours, for your radiance pierces through the ages. Within you burns a fever that bridges the chasm of absence—bridging it with that very hand which God, in the likeness of Michelangelo, extended toward Man.