In the garden of words, where silence blooms,
Mahmoud’s verses dance in gentle embrace,
Weaving tales of longing, of hearts consumed,
By the timeless rhythm of love’s tender face.

His pen, a brush that paints the soul’s deep hue,
With strokes of passion, in ink so profound,
Echoes of love in every line he drew,
A symphony of emotion, in silence found.

Through the winds of time, his whispers remain,
A melody that caresses the weary heart,
In every word, a universe to gain,
Where love and loss are never far apart.

Oh, Mahmoud, your love’s eternal flame,
Burns brightly in the corridors of our minds,
A beacon of hope that forever proclaims,
Love’s enduring truth, in your lines it binds.