Beirut Never Dies

 

 

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, it wants a fight with someone, anyone, to make sense of the senseless, to comprehend what can’t ever be understood.

My Beirut is tender, it walks the walk of the shadows of death with the ones departing her, cleansing their blood away from their faces and wiping away the tears of their loved ones. It stands proud amongst the vileness around, it kicks with contempt the abomination of criminals.

My Beirut is hurting, the thousands, the millions hearts that love her are hurting with her, and that beating, that never ending beating, still resonates in our ears and minds. Do you listen, you cowards, do you hear, you murderers, do you hear that silent noise, that thumping like thunder? They’re our hearts, reminding you, once and for all,

that

Beirut

Never

Dies.

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