that liminal moment

August 13th. Tonight will not be quiet. I am anticipating the worst. 20 air raids hit the dahyeh area in Beirut this afternoon. I witnessed the smoke rising again...The house was shaking and I am in the mountains. Two things haunted my sunday: A Red Cross member died on Friday just after he saved one of the refugees leaving marjayoun. An explosion landed right next to him as he secured the man out of harm's way. He died in the Bekaa valley.

...

August 13th. Two weeks have passed since that unforgettable Qana massacre. The blackest of the blackest sundays.

BLACK SUNDAY July 30th, 2006

Pompeii revisited
A tragedy inflicted by those that roam our skies at their will and think they are gods.
Bodies frozen.
Asleep. In a safe haven! In a bomb shelter.

That day, I was lying in my room gaping at the ceiling.
Eyes open/ closed, whichever way, the images of this morning’s Massacre were painted on the four walls. They were inescapable from my mind’s eye.
They possessed my peripheral vision.
Limbs, lifeless, interlocked together forming death. A bloody, lifeless bunyan tree reflecting the dearth of human limbs. The ones we used to draw in art class.
Life robbed in a dream, a cowardly strike, they were sleeping!!!
The morning was never to come. They were robbed from day break, of the beauty of dawn, of that liminal moment when time stands still confusing twilight with dawn.
Dawn was a blast.
A second Qana massacre.
Lifeless humanity.
A promenade of death.

Another round of mass graves.

Mourning.
Everyone is singing in a state of mourn, protesting and donating money to rebuild the infrastructure.
But, how do you rebuild LOST LIVES?
DEATH?

How does one resurrect death and caranage?
Blood stains, even if they are invisible cast shadows.
People are not made from bricks and stones.
They can not be reduced to rubble then rebuilt.
Saudi Arabia can never donate enough millions to bring them back.

They are DEAD.
Lifeless. Cold. Frozen. Murdered. Blasted. Slaughtered.
Denied Life for some fool’s arrogant power games.
For some fool’s sadistic fantasy.
Blood flows, tear dissolve.
Poems dissipate, broken into pieces like fractured bones.
Hearts burnt out. Souls slashed.
Who will be the patron for lost lives? Who will be the patron for those agonized souls?
Who is this patron of death?
Who will compensate and donate billions?
You know what, keep your money. We want none of it.
We want our clear oxygen, our clear skies, our water, our night.
Our peace.
How dare you stride over us in your pretentious display, pretending to be godly, when you fear death and perform retribution on others for your insecurity!