He is the beggar,
Who never asks you,
For money.
He just sits beside the path,
With his long Beirut beard,
Curly as Beirut streets,
Freckled with white,
Like wind on the waves,
Of the Beirut coast.
Lush like the vegetation,
Filling in the cracks.
The exploded holes in the city,
Like a tumbling beard,
Which always grows back.
And when you give,
His eyes rise to you,
Lighting up your night,
Like the moon,
And it is not clear,
Who has given to whom.