The state of Lebanon, its current borders, or its consoCIAtional power-sharing formula are unassailable facts....?
Hurrah, Hurrah.
1. Happy who in early youth,
While yet pure and innocent,
Stores his mind with heav'nly truth
Life's unfading ornament.
2. Happy who in tender years
Leans on God for his support ;
Who life's bark in virtue steers,
That it reach salvation's port.
3. Guide, O guide this hopeful band,
Father, in Thy truth and light !
May these children ever stand
Firm in virtue and in right.
4. Thine, O God, these souls are Thine,
Undefiled they came from Thee ;
Guide them in Thy love divine
Heirs of immortality !
Let's be the same wound if we must bleed,
let's fight side by side even if the enemy
is ourselves; and I am yours, you are mine...
let's fight side by side even if the enemy
is ourselves; and I am yours, you are mine...
I'm not interested in
Who suffered the most.
I'm interested in
People getting over it.
Once when my father was a boy
A stone hit him on the head.
Hair would never grow there.
Our fingers found the tender spot
And its riddles: the boy who has fallen
Stands up. A bucket of pears
In his mother's doorway welcomes him home.
The pears are not crying.
Lately his friend who threw the stone
Says he was aiming at a bird.
And my father starts growing wings.
Each carries a tender spot:
Something our lives forgot to give us.
A man builds a house and says,
"I am native now."
A woman speaks to a tree in place
Of her son. And olives come.
A child's poem says,
"I don't like wars,
they end up with monuments."
He's painting a bird with wings
Wide enough to cover two roofs at once.
Why are we so monumentally slow?
Soldiers stalk a pharmacy:
Big guns, little pills.
If you tilt your head just slightly
It's ridiculous.
There's a place in this brain
Where hate won't grow.
I touch its riddles: wind and seeds.
Something pokes us as we sleep.
It's late but everything comes next...
Who suffered the most.
I'm interested in
People getting over it.
Once when my father was a boy
A stone hit him on the head.
Hair would never grow there.
Our fingers found the tender spot
And its riddles: the boy who has fallen
Stands up. A bucket of pears
In his mother's doorway welcomes him home.
The pears are not crying.
Lately his friend who threw the stone
Says he was aiming at a bird.
And my father starts growing wings.
Each carries a tender spot:
Something our lives forgot to give us.
A man builds a house and says,
"I am native now."
A woman speaks to a tree in place
Of her son. And olives come.
A child's poem says,
"I don't like wars,
they end up with monuments."
He's painting a bird with wings
Wide enough to cover two roofs at once.
Why are we so monumentally slow?
Soldiers stalk a pharmacy:
Big guns, little pills.
If you tilt your head just slightly
It's ridiculous.
There's a place in this brain
Where hate won't grow.
I touch its riddles: wind and seeds.
Something pokes us as we sleep.
It's late but everything comes next...
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