Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with the urge to write. It is always poetry that doesn’t let me sleep.
I am from …
My heart belongs to the land of the Cedars,
the Cedars of God.
My heart belongs to where the sun kisses the Mediterranean good night
and the moon embraces the snowy mountain tips.
My heart belongs to a city that refuses to die,
a city like a Sphinx that rose seven times from the depths.
My heart belongs to a city ravaged by pain,
bloody pavements, bombed homes, screaming widows, and wailing orphans.
My heart belongs to a home filled with memories,
memories of peels of laughter around a burning fire,
memories of celebrations, of food, of music, of love.
My heart belongs to a grandma wrapped in black,
forever mourning the bloody murder of a husband and a son.
My heart belongs to a mother who fought to keep us alive,
but died too soon.
Yes, my heart belongs there,
where I can no longer be.