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