We are stripping Beirut of its skin
peeling dried walls
pestering the edges to rip another layer off.
We are out on the concrete
our running shoes are back home
our feet are burning
skin cracking like clay
Kintsugi, paint the broken with the gold of the revolution.
It pours chants from above Beirut
while it boils under with lumps of undigested truths
the city vomits sewage water
it struggles to wash its body clean
scraping fresh paint because it itches
Modern buildings force their weight on the neighboring rubble
thinking they’d lead to the collapse of 1975, 1982 and 2006
other times they’re hogging the view of the green and blue
sweeping history under the carpet
like dispensable dust.
I once heard that my generation laments over golden ages that were never theirs.
Why are we trying to forget a past that isn’t ours?
What are we losing when we’re trying to forget?
We pull our sleeves up and refurbish
tools brand new but the instruction manual is worn out
in our workshop we’re always standing on a ladder
thinking we’re building but we’re stagnant on the steps.
Will that make the old obsolete?
Our culture clinks in our pockets like coins
it’s a global currency.
Are we willing to exchange it?
We are stripping Beirut of its skin today.
But at what cost?
Written on January 3rd, 2020