The Cedars of Lebanon

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There is nothing in Lebanon. 
We are playing in our own blood. 
—A Maronite monk (1988) 

Across a shattered street, a Muslim groom lifts 
the train of his Christian bride as he steps over 
broken glass, old tires, and miles of rubblestone. 
Her face, a dark rose, is the only beauty 
in this ravaged landscape. 

The guns are silent for this small repose, although Mars
waits greedily for those born to murder one another 
for reasons no one will remember. 

Here Phoenicians made their alphabet 
for lovers to speak their marriage vows and death be
called by its endless names. At nearby Cana 
Jesus turned water into wine at a wedding feast of friends. 

Today there are no miracles, just these two figures
in white, like fugitive angels fleeing the world. 

Each spring the waters of the Adonis flow out 
of limestone caverns deep in the heart 
of Mount Lebanon. As they descend 
through rust hills, the waters turn red, flowing,
as the old story goes, from wounds torn 
in the flesh of the beautiful youth by Ares 
disguised as a wild boar. 

Wild pigs and dogs rout in rubble even on this day. 

Even on this day, when Adonis blossoms adorn
the wedding bed and where, when night shrouds the war,
Christ and Mohammed will make peace, 

Venus holds her dying love in her arms as her tears
speed the crimson river to the sea.