Sunday, August 06, 2006

night-song

I have been wringing my hands, fidgeting, unable to sleep. I watch the night hours drag to the sound of amplified Israeli war planes flying in our night-skies. I toss and turn unable to shut the ravaging noise out. My head is swollen with news headlines and infested with images of dismembered bodies. I could not look at images of blood-drenched dislocated and distorted bodies before and I find myself looking at them now; unable to push them away. I look out over Beirut every night and watch its beauty shimmer and glow. Ah, Beirut—the city that is made of gods, death and love. I love you. I love you the way love is possible between two people. You are my metaphor of all that makes sense. You have been plagued, abused, and cut-up and yet, you thrive. As I hear those brutal planes fly overhead, "how dare they enter the night without permission" I say to myself! How dare they invade our night-sky? How dare they pollute it with their toxins and unenviable propaganda?

I write now because I am unable to do anything else. Groundhog Day has invaded us like reality TV. We move in slow-motion like sleep-deprived zombies. We venture into the day disheartened. I watch the news, eat, read, try to sleep, and help the refugees. The kids need to be distracted. They are confined to a minuscule space to live. In the school where I volunteer, there are 30-40 people living in an average room. Imagine 30-40 people living in your bedroom!

Of course, we are oblivious. We are mad. Angry. Hating. Forced to hate. To Hate militarism. To hate the power that has confiscated our clean air, our blue skies, our roads, bridges, and our night! I have to come to dread the night. I used to live for it. It was my peace. My head is cloudy, and my mind is tortured. The smog enters me and clouds my vision and my day. I’m disconnected and bereft. Longing to go back to that city where the smells of exhaust pipes intermix with jasmine flowers. The only place where contradictions make sense. We are poetic people. Living. Alive. The dead are more than burnt limbs in this sky. So fret and flaunt your grand machinery. Kill and spill blood until nothing remains. But, we all know you are all cowards dressed up as the Israeli army and the Israeli prime minister paying the American government for your state of the art artillery with Lebanese blood; with undying poems.

2 Comments:

Blogger knots undone said...

i love you.

1:43 am  
Blogger knots undone said...

still.

12:50 pm  

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