Poetry and beauty are always making peace. When you read

Host: The café was old — one of those places where time slows, and the world outside seems to hesitate before entering. The walls were lined with books and framed photographs, and the air smelled of cardamom, ink, and quiet thought. Rain slid down the windows in thin silver ribbons, and a single candle flickered between Jack and Jeeny, its small flame swaying like a nervous heartbeat.

Jack sat hunched over a folded newspaper, a pen tapping lightly against the edge of his cup. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around warm tea, her eyes reflecting the soft amber of the candlelight. The room was hushed except for the murmur of rain and the low hum of an old Arabic song playing from a distant radio.

Jeeny: “Mahmoud Darwish once said, ‘Poetry and beauty are always making peace. When you read something beautiful you find coexistence; it breaks walls down.’”

Host: Her voice carried that gentle cadence poets seem to summon — deliberate, melodic, like each word had already weighed its meaning before leaving her mouth. Jack looked up, a faint smile ghosting across his face.

Jack: “Darwish. The man who turned exile into an art form.”

Jeeny: “And made beauty political without ever preaching it.”

Jack: “You really believe poetry can break walls down?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not by force — by recognition. It reminds people they share the same ache.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the candlelight flickering across his face, tracing the small furrows of fatigue and skepticism.

Jack: “I don’t know. Beauty’s overrated. People admire it, quote it, then go back to building new walls. Poetry’s not diplomacy.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s deeper. Diplomacy negotiates interests. Poetry negotiates hearts.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Sounds sentimental.”

Jeeny: “Sentiment is what makes us human, Jack. You can’t build peace on cynicism.”

Host: Outside, thunder rolled faintly — a distant echo of the world’s unrest. The candle fluttered. Inside, the café seemed to tighten its stillness, like it wanted to listen.

Jack: “You think beauty really matters in times like these? With war, corruption, inequality — what’s a poem against that?”

Jeeny: “A poem is a whisper that survives the shouting. It’s not power, it’s persistence.”

Jack: “Persistence doesn’t stop bullets.”

Jeeny: “No, but it stops forgetting. That’s how peace begins — in remembering the humanity behind the pain.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes were steady, their reflection alive with both fire and sorrow. Jack looked down at the table, tracing the rim of his cup.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I wrote poetry. Nothing serious. Just— trying to make sense of things. Then life happened, and sense became a luxury.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why we need it. Poetry’s not a luxury, Jack — it’s the last act of sanity in a world that’s lost it.”

Jack: “You make it sound like salvation.”

Jeeny: “It is. Not for the world — for the self. Every time you read or write something beautiful, you disarm a little piece of hatred.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a rhythmic murmur. The song on the radio shifted to something older — a woman’s voice, deep, melancholic, singing in Arabic about home, about distance.

Jeeny: “Darwish knew that beauty isn’t escape — it’s resistance. When you read something true, something alive, you stop being an enemy to the world. You start belonging again.”

Jack: “So you think coexistence starts with beauty?”

Jeeny: “With empathy. But beauty opens the door.”

Jack: “And words walk through it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, picking up his pen again, spinning it between his fingers. The flame between them flickered higher for a moment, reflecting off his gray eyes.

Jack: “You know, I used to think beauty was indulgent — something for people who didn’t want to face reality.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: (quietly) “Now I think maybe it’s the only thing that makes reality bearable.”

Jeeny: “Darwish would agree. Beauty doesn’t deny pain — it dignifies it.”

Host: The candle’s light danced between them — the flame small but unyielding. The kind of light that never tries to conquer the dark, only coexist with it.

Jeeny: “You see, poetry isn’t about perfect words. It’s about creating a space where contradiction can breathe — where love and anger, loss and hope, can sit at the same table. That’s coexistence.”

Jack: “And beauty’s the table.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Host: Jack looked around the café — at the old walls painted with murals of faces from distant lands, at the shelves lined with dog-eared books, at the quiet gathering of strangers all keeping the same silence.

Jack: “You know, maybe Darwish was right. Maybe poetry doesn’t just describe peace — it performs it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every time someone reads a line and feels less alone, the world becomes a little less divided.”

Jack: “So the poet’s not a warrior, then.”

Jeeny: “No. The poet’s a builder — of invisible bridges.”

Host: A long pause. The rain had stopped now, leaving behind the clean, damp scent of renewal. Outside, the streetlights shimmered against puddles like small fragments of a broken mirror slowly healing itself.

Jack: “You know what I envy about poets?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “They turn fragility into strength. They make the world stop and listen, even when it’s busy trying to destroy itself.”

Jeeny: “That’s because beauty doesn’t shout. It endures.”

Host: Jeeny lifted her cup, sipping the last of her tea. Jack watched her quietly, then took the pen and began to write something on a napkin.

Jeeny: “What are you doing?”

Jack: “Building.”

Jeeny: “A wall?”

Jack: “No. A bridge.”

Host: He slid the napkin toward her. A few rough lines — uneven, simple, honest — formed the shape of a small poem. She read it silently, and for a moment, her eyes glistened.

Jeeny: (softly) “You remember how to do it.”

Jack: “Maybe I never forgot. I just stopped believing it mattered.”

Jeeny: “Then Darwish wins tonight.”

Host: The candle flame quivered, then steadied, casting them both in warm, trembling light. Outside, the world was still vast, still fractured, still waiting to heal — but here, at this small table, two voices had found coexistence.

And as they sat in silence, the air between them filled with something larger than peace — the quiet radiance of beauty doing what it always does:

not changing the world,
but softening it enough
so love could try again.