Broken Sanctuary

In the heart of Old Cairo, where history breathes,

Darb 1718 once stood, a beacon of dreams.

Nestled among relics of ages past,

A contemporary haven, not meant to last.

 

Amr’s mosque whispers tales of conquests old, 

While Babylon’s fortress, secrets untold.

The hanging Church, suspended in time,

And St. George’s walls, with frescoes sublime.

 

Coptic Museum, guardian of lore,

Stands watch as centuries unfold their store.

In this tapestry of ancient threads,

A modern space for art reared its head.

 

Sixteen years of nurturing art’s young seeds,

Cultivating culture, fulfilling needs.

A crucible where futures were designed,

Where tradition and innovation intertwined.

 

Canvas and clay, music and light,

A sanctuary for expression’s might.

Workshops hummed with creative fire,

Inspiring souls to reach ever higher.

 

But progress marches with iron tread,

Crushing the living, honoring the dead.

Concrete and steel, the new gods we serve,

Demolishing the past with relentless verve.

No warning given, no chance to plead,

The bulldozers came with terrible speed.

Walls that echoed with artistic zeal,

Now reduced to rubble under progress’ wheel.

 

One hundred fifty artists’ souls laid bare, 

Their works destroyed beyond repair.

Millions in value, the say, but more—

Priceless visions swept from history’s shore.

 

The Exhibition Hall, once proud and tall,

Now just memories we try to recall.

Workshops where skills were honed with care,

Flattened and scattered on polluted air.

 

Oh, Fustat! Cradle of Cairo’s heart,

Your narrow streets now torn apart.

Widened by tears of those who mourn,

A cultural fabric violently torn.

 

We chase the future with reckless haste,

Leaving our heritage a barren waste.

New roads and bridges reach for the sky,

While beneath them, our roots wither and dry.

 

“We hate our history”, the TV host cries, 

As concrete towers scrape the skies.

A rare dissent in this changing scene,

What price we pay to be “modern” and “clean”.

 

Named for the riots of seventy-seven,

When bread was scarce and hopes uneven.

Now in ruins, it feeds our sorrow,

Uncertain what art will face tomorrow.

 

In this destruction, we find our voice,

Reminded that we still have a choice.

To honor the past as we build anew,

To keep our culture’s flame burning true.

 

For every brick torn from its place,

We’ll craft a verse, we’ll paint a face.

Though the center’s walls no longer stand,

Its spirit lives on throughout the land.

 

From Aswan’s peaks to Alexandria’s shore,

We’ll tell its story forevermore.

In hidden studios and public squares,

Creative defiance, if anyone dares.

 

Let this poem stand as a testament,

To all that was lost, to all it meant.

A bridge between yesterday and today,

Reminding us not to look away.

 

For in the shadow of pharaohs and kings,

We too must create lasting things.

Not just in stone and mortar cast,

But in the hearts of all who last.

 

So weep for the fallen, but do not despair,

For art will flourish beyond compare.

In every child who picks up a brush,

In every voice that breaks the hush.

 

The Nile still flows, as it always has,

Carrying stories of future and past.

Its waters whisper of glories gone,

And of new dawns waiting to be born.

 

In bustling markets and quiet lanes,

The pulse of creativity remains.

Though one door closes, a hundred open wide,

Inviting expression to step inside.

 

We’ll paint on walls, sing in the streets,

Our art will flow like Cairo’s heartbeats.

No bulldozer can crush a dream,

No highway drown out our creative scream.

 

So let us honor what has been lost,

By nurturing art at any cost.

In galleries, homes, and open air,

We’ll prove that culture’s roots run deep and fair.

 

Though Darb 1718 is no more,

Its legacy opens a thousand doors.

In the face of loss, we’ll rise again,

Our culture’s heartbeat, a strong Amen.