My Beirut is wounded. Shocked and saddened, she looks at her open, bleeding wounds, mesmerized, as if in a daze. She was not dreaming though, it really did happen to her. How odd, to think it thought of itself more or less healed, the wounds only painful scars, to realise it’s as vulnerable as ever.
My Beirut is crying, it saw its men and women weeping in despair, it had to hear once again the hypnotic sirens of ambulances rushing people in limbo back to the shores of life, it had to catch its breath again as the dead were giving their last one. It was confused, it had thought those were nightmares long gone.
My Beirut is angry, It would like to silence the so called politicians exploiting its despair, it would like to meet the coward perpetrators behind this insult, this injury to its glorious name…
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