Whether to exile
in the land of our fathers
the woman who's my mother
visited the,
dare i say,
man who's her son
whether to the exile
turning to pen and plowshares,
to descend to those
and taint this purity
is the complete sum
of my troubles
"oh the multiple troubles of man"
says samuel the prince.
the clouds here float too low
grazing the roof tops on grey days
wrapping the marble buildings in misty blankets
tainting their golden hue
leaving a cool dampness in their wake
for fen.
one may not outlive the ceders of lebanon
but we cheat them with our short tenure
when we fall blissfully in
and they to steel axes down
