To keep away from the smothering smoke
And the rising temper of the war to the knife
Besides to shun looking at the mortal remains
Which flayed the flies to fly away from a shocking sight,
I decided to climb up the mountain
Passing by the grave of Gibran
And the old cedars on my way
To the Black Corner.
I saw a group of hawkish clouds spreading wings eating sun
on the horizon.
Clashing with violence unsheathing swords gleaming edges
thrusting sheathe
Within the scabbard of space where still I can watch
Wings shattered by the boisterous winds
And others falling feathery blades in flame to fade,
Leaving behind a dark wrathful breast with a breathing soul
of storm
And a heart weathered with rage drumming thunder beats
To awaken the conscience of the world
But alas! the world had a demised conscience
And remained unconscious of its funeral.
Still keeping myself to myself on the corner alone
And still taking a long view of the brine ,
Where the tilting sun gained throne
Crowned by the sheen whiling away.
Leaving the world at the pitch of the night
As the Lebanese who were left
In a dark uncivilized cruel world.
Still lonely and silently contemplating
When I heard the voice of Gibran:
«Pity the nation divided into fragments
Each fragment deeming itself a nation. »
The voice dwindled away and I went to sleep,
Sleeping I dreamt that the Lebanese will rise again
Like a phoenix from the ash by the wings
Of their love and brotherhood to the tower of their glory
With their flags of liberty wavering on the highest mountain
Peak of their land: the Black Corner.