Streets of the Past I follow the curves, Of the streets of Beirut, With a good friend, Who was in the militia. We pass antique shops, We pass the steps, bars, All washed in traffic, Cars appear from nowhere, Like bullets. I still think I can see, In his inner eye, The trap around each corner, Every street, Has a sniper line of sight. He shows me, That here they used to, Stack up containers, One on top of another, So children could slide, Home in their cover, Safely from school, In the evening, unseen. He now walks casually, Through these streets, His eyes at ease, Shooting only with a camera. But before, He would come home from work, Take off his tie, And go out, For a second work, To protect the streets, The corners, The lines of sight, Protect his community. And now, As we wander, The same streets of modern Beirut, His outer and inner eyes, Do not always see the same paths, With his camera, He still searches lines of cover, In the streets of the past.