Lebanese village by Saadi Sinevi
Letters to My Son: Third Letter
September 1988
Monterey, CA
I plant you in my eyes, a song of virgin longing, and I draw your smile over my sails bound towards the future. I am longing for return, and you are my hope and the eternal truth. Your two hands, my little one, are the cradle of love, and I am but a Sufi drowning in the deluge of meditation. I wear the gown of pain, and my feet are rooted in the glowing clay of creativity. May peace be upon you the day you were born and the day you embraced me and I felt that I held a bouquet of innocence and embraced a flaming sword. Glory be to your miraculous childhood. You are the lamb of peace, the joy of life, the tear of yearning and the hope of resurrection.
My letters to you are but the embers of my burning thoughts, for you are the flame of prophecy and the wings of inspiration. You carry me to the world of the unknown and plant me in the fields of lilies and poems. You throw me on the sidewalks of the past and desert me on the shores of faraway islands. There, I metamorphose and transform into tropical plants, exploding with pleasure and burdened with forbidden fruits. I take off the tied gown of civilization and become naught but the flame of truth. I become one with the elements and melt like dew in the eyes of bereaving mothers.
My son, they need you in Lebanon today. They need you to wipe the tears of dejection and uproot the seeds of despair, for Lebanon is determined to commit suicide. She has lost her will to survive and is exhausted from her commitment to continue living in death and humility. Lebanon has left us and decided to depart. She has lifted her broken flute and thrown it to the mad wind of fury. Lebanon has allowed her threshing floors to hunger and her rivers to thirst. Lebanon has stabbed her own heart with the spear of ignorance, has buried her body in “The River of Ashes,” and has gone silent. Nothing is left except her immortal memory buried in our hearts. We are the tormented orphans. We, the poets, the ever present in the memory of history, reject the reality of her crucifixion and cling to a string of hope and deeply believe in the truth of her coming resurrection. We await Lebanon’s return.
Why have you frowned at my sincere prayers? The wrath of children is more powerful than that of the gods. Your two beautiful eyes have transformed into two islands of clouds and rain, and your eyelashes tremble. Did I wish for the impossible? Did I wound the virgin prophecy? Help me, my little one. I am drowning, and you stand on my shores holding the cross of salvation.
September 1988
Monterey, CA
I plant you in my eyes, a song of virgin longing, and I draw your smile over my sails bound towards the future. I am longing for return, and you are my hope and the eternal truth. Your two hands, my little one, are the cradle of love, and I am but a Sufi drowning in the deluge of meditation. I wear the gown of pain, and my feet are rooted in the glowing clay of creativity. May peace be upon you the day you were born and the day you embraced me and I felt that I held a bouquet of innocence and embraced a flaming sword. Glory be to your miraculous childhood. You are the lamb of peace, the joy of life, the tear of yearning and the hope of resurrection.
My letters to you are but the embers of my burning thoughts, for you are the flame of prophecy and the wings of inspiration. You carry me to the world of the unknown and plant me in the fields of lilies and poems. You throw me on the sidewalks of the past and desert me on the shores of faraway islands. There, I metamorphose and transform into tropical plants, exploding with pleasure and burdened with forbidden fruits. I take off the tied gown of civilization and become naught but the flame of truth. I become one with the elements and melt like dew in the eyes of bereaving mothers.
My son, they need you in Lebanon today. They need you to wipe the tears of dejection and uproot the seeds of despair, for Lebanon is determined to commit suicide. She has lost her will to survive and is exhausted from her commitment to continue living in death and humility. Lebanon has left us and decided to depart. She has lifted her broken flute and thrown it to the mad wind of fury. Lebanon has allowed her threshing floors to hunger and her rivers to thirst. Lebanon has stabbed her own heart with the spear of ignorance, has buried her body in “The River of Ashes,” and has gone silent. Nothing is left except her immortal memory buried in our hearts. We are the tormented orphans. We, the poets, the ever present in the memory of history, reject the reality of her crucifixion and cling to a string of hope and deeply believe in the truth of her coming resurrection. We await Lebanon’s return.
Why have you frowned at my sincere prayers? The wrath of children is more powerful than that of the gods. Your two beautiful eyes have transformed into two islands of clouds and rain, and your eyelashes tremble. Did I wish for the impossible? Did I wound the virgin prophecy? Help me, my little one. I am drowning, and you stand on my shores holding the cross of salvation.
