Mohammed

bin Rashid Al Maktoum

bin Rashid Al Maktoum

POems

Mohammed
from the desert
Sheikh Mohammed reveals his passions but tempers
them with justice and tolerance. These two qualities
make for the legacy of any man on this earth.
His Highness Sheikh Mohammed
bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Vice- — Paulo Coelho
President and Prime Minister of
the United Arab Emirates and
Ruler of Dubai is well known as a

visionary leader contributing to the
country’s leading role in today’s

from the desert

global economy.

Poems
Poetry has been a lifelong passion
for him. Al Mutanabi, Al Buhtori
and Abu Tammam are his favourite
classical poets – voices that have
enriched Arabic poetry. These
influences, combined with the
Gulf tradition of Nabati poetry, a
form dear to him, due to its social
and literary significance and with
its roots based in this region, have
given a particular quality to the
poems published on these pages.
Sheikh Mohammed has been able
to express a mature sensitivity
through this medium and a love of
thought and language.

ISBN 978-1-86063-252-5 Motivate Publishing

ISBN: 978 1 86063 252 5

 Contents

Foreword ix Rare Proverbs 48

A Mother’s Complaint 2 The Moment of Joy 49
Affection in Your Eyes 4 Chance 50
In the Lion’s Eye 6 Rosewater 52
My Healer 8 The Setting Sun 54
One Still Night 10 Place Me in Your Eyes 56
Calmed and Brightened 13 O Healing Verse 58
As the Night Approached 14 O Soul Mate 60
The Old Man 16 Glossary 63
In the Clouds 19
My Poetic Inspiration 20
Zayed 24
Why Am I Infatuated? 30
My Burden Has Returned 32
O Sweetheart 34
Beauty So Natural 36
I Saw a Star 38
The Fire of Love 40
The Night Shelters Wonders 43
Orbits 44

vi vii
 Foreword by paulo coelho

O
rtega and Gasset once wrote: “I am myself and my circumstances”.
I knew the moment I laid my hands on the collection of poems by
His Highness that I was in front of a testimony from a political,
public figure but also in front of a human being – with all his passions
and yearnings. It was this knowledge that enabled me to accept such an
invitation – since I knew that I would deal with the inner questionings of
a man, not only a ruler. A man who shares the same questions as many
of us living today, dwelling in a world full of interrogation marks as for
the future.
What drives a person to set down his hand on a piece of paper and
write? I know this question may seem vain, especially since being a writer
myself I never managed to answer it. Yet, I’ve always been intrigued by
it and when I decided to write this foreword for His Highness Sheikh
Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum this question surfaced again in
my mind.
All the energy of thinking is eventually shown in the nib of a pen. Of
course, here we can substitute nib by ballpoint, computer keyboard, or
pencil, and I don’t know the instrument His Highness uses, but I can
visualise him using a pen, as it goes better with the romanticism and
intensity of his poems.
The pen writes words, and words eventually condense an idea. Paper is
just a support for this idea. But the pen is an extension of the writer’s hand
and desire. They serve to sign decrees, make us dream, send news, trace
words of love. So the intentions that guide the pen are very important.
The hand is where all the muscles of the body, all the intentions of the
person writing, all the effort to share what he feels, are concentrated. It
is not just a part of his arm but also the physical manifestation of his
thought. A writer or a poet must hold his pen with the same respect that
a violinist has for his instrument.
There I was, first surprised to know that His Highness actually had
written a collection of poems and afterwards curious to see the words that
would flow from his visions. I received the poems and eagerly started to
read them – knowing that between my hands laid his soul and his heart.

viii ix
 Certain poems of this collection faithfully reflect His Highness’s
position of power: the very first poem A Mother’s Complaint dwells on
the responsibilities of a ruler, attentive to the strife of his people and
concerned by those who lack support.
As a man is himself and his circumstance, the poems dedicated to
His Highness Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan transpire his deep
reverence towards this admirable ruler. It becomes clear that in His
Highness’s eyes the true measure of accomplishment is based on the
pillars of justice, tolerance and vision. The United Arab Emirates is the
living legacy of such efforts and creativity.
There is an interesting story in The Thousand and One Nights: Caliph
Haroun Al Rashid decided to build a palace in order to demonstrate
the greatness of his kingdom. He gathered together the greatest
works of art, designed gardens, and personally selected the marbles
and carpets.
Beside the grounds that had been chosen, was a dwelling. Al Rashid
asked his minister to convince the owner – an old weaver – to sell it so
that it might be demolished.
The minister tried in vain; the old man said he did not wish to part
with it.
Upon hearing of the old man’s decision, the Court Council suggested
he be simply thrown out.
“No”, responded Al Rashid. “He will become part of my legacy to my
people. When they come to the palace, they will say: he was a man who
worked in order to show the beauty of our culture”.
“And when they see the dwelling, they will say: he was just, for he
respected the work of other men.”
His Highness’s poems, whilst revealing the present ruler, also guide
the readers to uncharted places.
What an act of courage – I said to myself while turning the pages of
this book – to present his soul bare to the world. Poetry is a mirror that
reveals, without concessions, the very essence of a human being. And
here I am reading the words of a man that has to play in the political
x xi
arena, of a man that – by the necessities of his position – has always to be
temperate and to reconcile.
But how can a man temper and reconcile the passions that burn
inside? Luckily His Highness didn’t try to stop the ferocious roar of his
emotions. On the contrary, in many of his love poems, he presents his
doubts and eagerness to fully live passions. He understands that love is
a strength that can either lift or destroy us. It can take us from heaven to
hell in a matter of seconds.
His verses on love are tinged by the imageries of the hunter: lions,
gazelles and oryx roam free in the dense spaces of passion. The fire of
unrequited love burns in the sleepless evenings. It is evident that His
Highness turns to the blank page in order to find refuge in words.
But don’t let yourself be fooled by this “refuge” – His Highness knows
that our souls are vessels made to sail in the vast oceans of life. The refuge
we seek is the one that can only be found when one takes risks. It is this
very movement that equally guides me when I set myself on writing a
book. I never know where this adventure will lead me and it always takes
a lot of courage to let oneself be guided by this mysterious force.
There’s a motto in Alchemy: “concentrate and dissolve”. As you may
know, alchemists would, through laboratory studies, try to distil the
mercury from the sulphur and then refine the mercury until it converted
into gold. This quest would lead them to the Philosopher Stone (which
was the solid component) and the Long Life Elixir. The process of
distilling is based on this very simple motto: concentrate – meaning
extracting the essence – and dissolve – meaning mixing the essence
with something else.
Many disregard that as routine. But the alchemists were training
their patience and thus transforming their perception of the world.
I think you can apply this same motto to love: in order to preserve
love’s freedom, one has to be able at the same time to dive into its
essence and to share it with others.
His Highness in his love poems does exactly that: he lives, loves and
shares it with his readers.
 Blake wrote two collections of poems: one on Innocence and the
other on Experience. Yet, even if these two moments of a man’s life
may seem at odds, they are not completely antagonistic. Innocence
untainted by experience too often leads to inconsequence. On the
other hand, experience, disdainful of innocence, only leads a man to
bitterness and seclusion.
Unity between these two moments can be reached: when a Man is
able to keep his soul open while knowing the ways of the world.
His Highness reveals his passions but tempers them with justice
and tolerance. These two qualities make for the legacy of any man on
this earth.
Reading His Highness’s poems, I try to imagine the inner conflict
between being a poet and a ruler. But when I give a second thought to
it, I understand that there is no conflict at all: when a ruler has the soul
of a poet, he understands better the needs of his people. When the poet
has the soul of a ruler, he exercises the most needed discipline to dig
deep into his soul, to allow all the exuberance of God to be manifested.
When you pass by a writer who has just finished a text, you will feel that
he has an empty expression on his face and that he seems distracted.
But he – only he – knows that he has risked a lot, managed to develop
his instinct, maintained his elegance and concentration during the
whole process, and can now afford to feel the presence of the universe
and see that his action was just and deserved. His closest friends know
that his thought has changed dimensions. Now it is in touch with the
lions, gazelles, the desert, the Bedouins, the ancestors, the dreamers,
the mountains, and the forgotten lessons of the past.
Writing is an act of courage. But it’s worth taking the risk, and His
Highness’s poems help us to understand better the soul of a man and
the heritage of a nation.

— Paulo Coelho

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 A mother’s lament


With sorrow she approached me, to speak of her son. With a broken voice, she spoke once again,
She seemed a broken soul, mistreated by him… Of how he threw her out of the place they called home.

She thought that he valued her so dearly, At first I kept silent, my soul was enraged,
He who was part of her own flesh and being. By the cruelty and injustice, brought upon her.

Wounded, she came to me when her hopes had been dashed, I said to her: “Your rights were denied as if in a lion’s den,
She came with pain that no time could measure. They will be returned to you, after the beast’s defeat…”

She said: “After his father’s abrupt demise, With an intention to help in such difficult times,
I took care of him, and raised him so dearly… I called for him, to reprimand his wrong-doing.

An orphan with no place for shelter, My words were interrupted by her pleading voice:
A mere infant, still sleeping in his cradle… “What are you doing?” she asked with a startled tone.

For his sake, I took up a servant’s job, “I am his Mother, sir, do not condemn him.
Hoping nights’ promise would someday be fulfilled… How can a mother’s heart oppress her own child?”

Years went by, and he grew into a man, How vast is her forgiveness, how tender her heart?
The day I awaited had finally arrived.” When empowered she pardoned and forgot his cruel deeds.

She paused right then, with silent tears,

Running down her cheeks, her pain I could see

2 3
 Affection in your eyes


Your eyes contain affection, coyness and delight, You have met my undying fervor with silence,
But at times I glimpse through them a touch of reproach. Why would you respond, when you deny I exist?

A fatal arrow I discern within, Oh! The agony those avoiding eyes have caused
That pierced my soul and left me insane. They stole my sound sleep and were gone.

Let the past be; soften your heart,

Forgive my mistakes, and reward my good deeds.

In you, I have faith and what’s destined is destined,

For every occurrence, a reason exists.

O sweetheart, we have shared profound emotions,

And through them, savoured the sweet torture of love.

We have an ailment that no medicine can cure,

No experts in herbs can remedy this.

I have tried and tried again to meet you,

But my efforts to approach were in vain.

4 5
 in the lion’s eye


In the eyes of the lion, Your neglect for my feelings will not derail my affections,
The Gazelle’s weakness was seen. Your image, in my mind, has become entrenched.

And the eyes of the Gazelle O You who embodies my hopes and desire,
Found the lion’s strength… Have mercy on my soul, and undo these chains.

My heart was captivated and I yearn for your presence, hurt from your neglect,
Overwhelmed by a burning passion that could not be quenched. Your ingratitude, your indifference have undone me.

Woe to him, who by those eyes was besieged,

Piercing his chest to the very core of his being.

Should he be scorned for sparing the life

Of the Gazelle that he coveted and chased?

Her sweetness devoured me, overcoming all bitterness,

Her disregard and ignorance left me in despair.

What route of escape can the enamored take,

When the cure lies in her bosoms, lips, and cheeks?

I shouted with a voice that could be heard for miles,

Its echo resonated throughout the universe.

6 7
 My healer

Healer, how can you heal me,
when you are my cure?
My need has driven me,
to believe you are pure.
Your captivating eyes
reflect in my own.
Have mercy, save me
from the torment you’ve sown.
Love, is anything left to love?
Both it’s presence and absence
have caused me such pain,
If only my love knew,
she had hurt me again.
My heart has suffered;
my longing has grown,
To her I would turn,
though she left me alone.
Memories of you carry me
on wings that can rise,
And I would complain,
without favour or prize.
8 9
Unaware of the answer,
though it should have shone through,
When my eyes set upon her,
my soul yearns anew.
Her images soar
above mountains so tall.
And for her I chant
every love song I recall.
She has, with an arrow,
struck my very core,
I remember the past
and demand even more.
Over and over,
my verse turns to song,
It is to my Healer
I truly belong.
 One Still Night


At night, it haunted me from far away, I would give up my present and all that has passed,
A night so long, it seemed to have no end. I would give up my past, and the days yet to come.

Aching memories echoed through it, I would paint my words with meaningful verse,
With tunes of pleasantly painful verse. With colours so bright that they tease the eyes.

One wonders if the echoes were mere imaginations, I draw but a letter, yet the letter draws words,
Or were they inborn feelings that haunted my soul? That rise above the most powerful poem.

Were they rising sounds and screams of pain, For those in love I wrote wonders in verse,
Or just silent and muffled moans? That remain immortal throughout all time.

Perhaps they were passive, unemotional tears, Such potent poems, so rhythmically written,
Or was it a single tear filled with passion? Unveiling the genius behind every verse.

My nature and yours are so alike, Of all those verses, I chose just the boldest,
Body and soul, to survive, need each other. Led and inspired by my dreams and vision.

Don’t regret anything in the past, The most joyful, daunting, or yielding lines,
What’s past has perished and is long gone. Which will be heard, even if in whispers spoken.

Time lasts for hours, a lifetime but moments, I lose myself along the way,
You may suffer or taste the true joy of life. Yet land on shores of flowing lines.

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