Once again, a nursing mother seeks the scattered pieces of the cradle, tinted with blood, bearing a dying limb, on a dying body.
Once again, the resting workers are blasted, and the good they built with their good hearts, is being devoured by the evil of those whose hearts beat with evil.
Once again,I put my hand on a wound that is bleeding, and out of its pain a loud voice emerges and calls upon another beloved bleeding wound.
Once again the shepherds lead the wolves into the hangar at night, where their own sheeps are vulnerably sleeping.
Once again, the lamenting loss visits our streets shaking the pillars of half-stable years sowing destructive chaos, hopelessness, death and rage.
Nay, this time is different!
It is greater than all times.
The nursing mother, has found naught but a part of her own, kissed by ugliness in a mere calamity . And a wail is trembling the half-standing room.
The workers are no more but a screaming memory, sweet yet bitter to the unforgetting senses in the hearts of their beloved .
The wound beneath my hand, is still bleeding now with blood and tears, yet, it has stopped calling! For now , we both know that the other wound has stopped bleeding, and turned cold, and white.
The shepherds have put their wolflike masks, and followed the wolves into the hangar. They have witnessed the massacre, and now are sharing the flesh of all their own slain sheeps.
This time, the scent of blood that loss has spread is surpassed by the scent of corruption.
There was a field, much rich, much envied.
The protectors of that field, got hungry for gold, forgetting that their honour and their roots were within the field they were trusted to defend.
They had got their gold, and set free the rats into the harvest, eating, ruining and leaving a devastated yield.
But the protectors of the field got hungry again, and they got more gold, and set the fire into what was left , turning it into a barren land.
And again, the insatiable greed got more and more gold, and piled upon the barren burnt field and under its ground, a pestilence and a curse.
Now the bleached fresh bones of dead children and the weeping of the cut flesh , are echoes that will never cease to disrupt the wicked souls who sold their own priceless parents and children.
Lebanon,
The ever envied field,
The dawn of literature as we know it, the dwelling of the First Written Alphabet.
The rich shore hugged by sun, the dwelling of the legendary Imperial Purple Murex.
The lofty mountain secluded into clouds of lofty air, the dwelling of the Cedars Of God.
Lebanon,
How oft , oh how oft, had you fallen, and burnt .
And how oft, oh how oft had you risen again from between your own ashes.
How oft, oh how oft the legendary Phoenix has burnt through your men and women, whose brains are sanctuaries of wisdom, whose hearts are wells of fondness, whose souls are fearless and bodies are weapons of justice.
To the majority of our dear leaders
Who sold our country as a foreign piece of land, to foreign people.
And chose the gold in their pockets, upon the dignity of their people.
You do not deserve to be called Lebanese.
The scent your corruption is much foul
And it offences my senses.
And your deals of ugliness
Are plain obvious and plainly ugly.
You are not Lebanon,
You are but a sick phase of our country.
Hoping soon that it will recover
From your illness
And the Phoenix will again
Ignite with righteousness
Over the ashes
With flames burning the wicked
And lighting again upon the dark barren field,
Reviving the Buried Hope.
