The Barber of Beirut
Even during the war,
He would take out,
His razor,
And cut the beards,
Of Muslims,
Christians, Druze,
As they turned up,
To his Barber’s shop,
In Beirut.
“Their beards grow,
The same,
Regardless of religion”,
He would say.
His blade,
Would skim their necks,
Like a stone on water,
Follow the contours,
Under their chins,
His movement was
As soft as silk,
Like a caress,
He nicked behind their ears,
Across the back of their neck.
So they looked tidy,
And beautiful,
If they were to die.
He sometimes wondered,
If the razors were reversed,
And he sat there,
At a checkpoint,
In the barber’s chair,
Of his car at night,
And they held the blade,
To his neck,
What would happen next?
But during the war,
He would shave anyone,
Muslim or Christian.
It was his way,
Of beating the war,
The war, which rolled,
Like a barber’s blade,
Up and down his street,