My land has been ripped.
Its seeds trapped beneath
cinders of ash and rock.
Its root suffocating.
Its branches
no longer branches,
and its buds weeping
somewhere along the edge
of heaven looking
down upon bent cities
mourning those whose
flesh are screaming
to kiss the innocent
skin-like fingernails
of newborn children who
have been burned to death.

And the children!
Oh! The children!
They are sealed within
the winds that dance along
Lebanons green motherly lands
as the embers and crumbs whistle
an eerie tune through the
emptiness of the streets;
My heart is burning with
the souls that have died
a thousand different ways.

Somewhere over the mounds
of Lebanon, souls
that once breathed her air full
of joyous pride, clutch
to the sadness and adorn her
in prayer.

I believe with all that I believe that
somewhere deep within the forests
of her beauty,
Lebanon is smiling
awaiting rejuvenation,
awaiting a nation
dancing in
illumination

One day we will open
our dead eyes and find
that the capital of heaven is
Beirut.
Finally salvation.
-Arizona