I carried a map in a worn-out book,
Not drawn in ink, but in every look—
Of skies I watched from a distant street,
Where hope and hardship would always meet.
A boy in Syria, small but strong,
Held quiet dreams his whole life long,
Of distant halls and learning light,
Of sleepless days and studied nights.
They said the road would break my will,
Too far, too cold, too steep a hill—
But every “no” became my flame,
Each doubt I heard just fed my aim.
The journey carved me, deep and true,
Through fear I faced and storms I knew,
Through waiting rooms and papers thin,
Through doors that closed… and one let me in.
And then one day—the gate stood wide,
A campus stretched like open tide,
Where dreams weren’t whispers anymore,
But footsteps crossing every door.
I stood, not just where I once dreamed,
But where the light had always gleamed—
The path was hard, the climb was long,
But every struggle made me strong.
Now when I walk these halls of grace,
I carry still that distant place—
For every mile, each scar, each tear,
Was worth the moment I am here.
A very beautiful and inspiring poem.
Thank you!