Across a living room filled with nights only she can host
I spoke of her to those across the world who will never experience what it is to fall for a city it is beyond patriotism this ineffable love for a sleepless phenomenon who homes strangers shook the world with shockwaves that equaled the chemical imbalance its people have for their city
Under the debris of sparkling glass she was broken there’s so much she can withstand even when we always stand by her side shards engrave themselves under thick skin poking at the body that still believes in love at first breath
At a heart that does not know how to stop At a will-power that questions its creator about its strength At a body that homes an identity beyond this world alien to it
toxicity hovered in lungs
And across skies blushing clouds turning them pink
Sunset wasn’t serene
The ocean cradled bodies
on their way to the afterlife
They cried salty tears
Her soil has felt the stomping anger of grieving mothers, fathers, husbands families the last words of suffocating victims who never lost hope till
The angels opened the doors of the sky
To welcome new brave souls into the heavens to lead by example their white coffins wed the earth with the skies they watch over us
Brooms brushed her face Hands held others Homes homed Revolutionists revolted Nooses were hung judgment day is knocking at our hearts and mind you, we are known for our hospitality
She cannot cry
She never did
It never suited her
But she sure knows how to roar how to devour parasites feeding at her immortality
I wear your ring around my finger
“In sickness and in health till nothing does us part”
To Beirut, To August 4, 2020, 6:10 pm To its people To its everything
A symphony for Baghdad: Words in crimson On flimsy placards Held high with anger Frustration writ On their ragged features. The law is hard but it is the law Says the hypocritical politician Who bends them all “Enough is enough”, the people said Teargas and bullets will not make us sway Release your bombs and fire your bullets, Let our blood water this holy ground Our motherland But we will not let you stay. Centuries have passed Since Sheherezade told her tale Years have passed since Aladdin’s magic lamp First touched the minds of the young ones. Is it a surprise that the young are dead? Baghdad has fallen Prey to the hands of those Who support murdering their brethren and children. The sun rose and set The numbers went from thirty to three hundred And no one cared. Winners in Baghdad these days are those Who returns home from the protests Wearing a necklace of half a metal heart for a pendant Knowing the other half was lost to the bullets. They share stories of passion and fury To hide the void within Their hope, their faith, lost. Their sacrifices in vain. The protests grow old With news, numbers and names of the players Of this sick, faux patriotic game.
Lebanon: The Chaos has affected them far too long They now out there looking for peace and hope to now spread out more Havoc almost birthed, they circle and stop the creation Letting the higher-ups know Who brings the forth the negatives and hurt Food and shelter provided Streets cleaned and maintained for use by all Wish the world could learn how to function together like this Imagine a world where Little children are smiling, greeting other children from different countries and cultures Living and playing together without a worry in the world Men and women living in harmony and happiness Peace an actuality in the world But that’s only in your head In reality Little children are bombed and interrupted by death Men rather **** the women and **** or shoot down the men that don’t agree with or are against them Peace is being held on a leash by Chaos That’s happening in front of your eyes And right now, you’re probably just gonna read it, like it and move on, but nope. I see people sharing More is needed to be done As I said, I and my friends are bringing the tools All you have to do is use them properly If you really want to see peace, you’ll know what to do I know what I’m doing Perspective I gained And now I’m making sure it happens.
My name is intangible, its recited or sung, a verse from old folk poetry or the beautiful Quran. I’m remembered when a Zajjalin sings, words of poetry, rhythms and feelings. I'm the makeup of things whether suppressive or freeing and the concrete emotions that a poet leaves ringing.
My name is the voices of change in Lebanon’s civil war. A wounded country where the people is its soul. I was the hope and granddaughter my grandfather wished to call. I carry the name proudly waiting for Lebanon’s sun to return home.