The moon breaks its mirrors on the ruins as Beirut makes crutches out of blood and
ashes
and hobbles with them.
It’s true. The sky has chains around her feet, and the stars have daggers strapped to
their
waists.
The day rubs its eyes, disbelieving what it sees.
Weep, Beirut, wipe your tears with the horizon s kerchief. You wrote the sky again,
but you
were wrong, and now your wrongs write you.
Do you have another alphabet?