By Bilal Karima and Dania L.

You are lucky, my son, 
you're not here today,
witnessing atrocious acts 
of human vulgarities
towards your fellow man.
Life held beauty here- in Beirut-
romance, roses and Parisian perfumes.
Pleasurable hours: playing, singing, smoking Cuban cigars;
laughter and a sense of belonging 
to land, family and friends.
I remember shared walks down the Monot, 
my Italian friend inhaling the purity of this place--
summer winds laced with the essence of Jasmine.
I remember sitting in restaurants,
music playing, glasses meeting, 
the taste of exquisite food
while listening to the melodious unification 
of worldwide accents.
Oh yes, my son, 
memories of nightly drives 
through silent districts heading toward
The Lady Of Lebanon,
We'd delight at the sight of clashing waves 
against age-old rocks of Jounyeh,
How can I forget

the journey passing by the ornamented Sidon Mosque.
Reaching to the old houses in Tyre,
its narrow streets.
The hopeful faces of humble people
finding joy in what little they have, 
uncomplaining. 
These days, once recent, are now gone.
A simple fortnight made our country bleed, my son.
Restaurants are deserted, 
glasses shattered. 
The lone music of high-pitched wailing
bounces off abandoned shapeless streets,
food is poisoned, bread stale, 
and fruits decayed.
And the waves, my son, 
white foam is bubbling lava,
clashing onto beds of corpses, fire, and rubble.
Jasmine drenched by fear
and the acrid odor of blood. 
The songs; croaking lamentations 
formed over mass gravesites. 
Today, 
your Italian mom has fled my arms
while Tyre embraces death.
Boxes once filled with delicacies
now house shredded corpses,
and all the glasses overflow with tears.
Today, I feel something akin to relief, 
my son.
You shall not witness destruction,
nor crimes against humanity.
You shall not taste 
the bitterness of unjustifiable retaliation,
nor know the true meaning of misery.
Today, my son,
I salute you for not being born.