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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The land of white Home of Ahiram your ancient king You, who grows cedars in her back yard You, who raised millions of children Whether they did you harm Or left you blind Your door was always open, and your yard was always green Loubnan, you are not my country You are not a landscape of cedars and mountains You You are a patch of soil The same patch The one beneath my face when I fell When the taste of blood trickled down my throat But always a drop escaped, and landed on your rugged surface Your tested and scarred surface And when I sweat, of toil and pain When I run from your invaders My sweat trickles into my lips And I taste the pain I endure And always A drop escapes And on your cheek it lands That rugged surface of root ridden soil But you do not wipe your cheek of my blood and sweat With it You build us mountains Crystal white beacons of your fortitude With it You grow us cedars Vivid green emblems of your prosperity And when your foe would bring his fist and thunder Crush your mountains and burn your trees Always, whether we ran Left you alone and blind Or stood, made you hopeful and proud Always of our sweat and blood You made us roses Roses to place on our dead The dead we burry under the shade of your Cedars Under the protection of your Mountains My Loubnan My patch of soil You are still not my country No Because my country is not a patch of soil Not without someone to work it A farmer to work your land Not without your people to stand proud with you My country Is nothing without her children Without her fruit Without her cedars and mountains Her running rivers, the tears she sheds at our turmoil But whether fists come crashing down on us Or thunder shatters our hopes We will always work the land that raised us We will always be One country One nation Of mountains and cedars Of hope and pride We will always be Loubnan Oh, if only fiction was as real as hope © Samir Georges 2009
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