The Sword, the Shield and the Heart.
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
Copyright © Samir Georges | Year Posted 2010
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