The cross kind of works,
In the Beirut skyline,
The crisscross,
Of broken houses,
The staccato rhythm,
Of bullet holes,
Thrown decoratively,
Across their facades,
Sculpted in.
And above this broken scene,
The cross of a church rises.
I don’t find it works,
In the rural English village,
Above the tamed lawn,
Of countryside,
Or resplendent on a cathedral,
Where is the suffering?
But here in Beirut,
The cross works,
It rises above suffering,
Part of the crooked skyline,
Not reaching heaven,
But like the mast,
On a half sinking,
Half sailing ship,
Bobbing with a wave’s toss,
Above Beirut buildings,
Rises the church cross.