You Are Lucky My Son, Need help here PLS. Options

[Siren]

Dear All... I have shared this poem privately with you and am now hoping for help on it.
This is written by Bilal K. and editted by me. Bilal and I have agreed naming this a collaboration. I'm posting both versions here. The original, written by Bilal K. and the revised written by me. I would appreciate any help... Thank you

Original version by Bilal K.

You are lucky my son..
You are lucky for not being here today..
Seeing these atrocities, these vulgarities of human behavior, towards other humans,

Here, there were times of beauty, times of red roses, of romance, and Parisian perfumes,
There were times of pleasure, and dancing, and singing and smoking Cuban cigar..
There were times of sheer happiness and belonging, to the land and family and the friends..
There were times..

I remember my son, when I used to walk down the Mono, with my Italian friend..
Breathing the essence of Jasmine, smelling the purity of place, inhaling the night freshness..
I remember sitting in restaurants, hearing the laughter, the jokes, the intermingling of French and Italian and English accents, with music playing , and glasses meeting, and exquisite food devouring…
Yes I remember.

I remember the driving at night, through the cities, the stopping at a nearby shawerma place, the heading towards the “lady of Lebanon”, the prayers at the ornamented Sidon Mosque, the passing by Jouniyeh to breath in the fresh air , and hear the clashes of waves against the million year old rocks..
How can I forget?

I remember this old old house in Tyre, the tight streets, the lovely faces of humble people, the exquisite fish and meza, the port, and the fishermen..
These faces were filled with joy and hope, no one cared what tomorrow was bringing,
No one complained about daily bread,

These days.. my son, were not long ago..
These days happened only few weeks ago..

Today it is a different world my son,
Today the restaurants are closed,
And the streets are shapeless,
And the accents are of high tone, filled with sweat and blood,

Today, the clashes are not of waves, but of lava,
Fire, and ammunition, and blood,
Today my son, my Italian friend has gone,
And the Jasmine smell has turned to the smell of fear, and agony and depression,
Today my son, the food is poisoned, the bread is horror, and the freshness is rotten,
Today the laughter turned into lamentation, and weeping,

Today, Tyre has abandoned hope and embraced death,
Yes my son, Tyre has emptied its glasses from Wine, and filled them with tears,
It has made boxes, not of chocolate, not candies, but boxes of corps and dead souls..

Today my son, I am happy for you!!
For not witnessing these destructions,
For not hearing the cries,
For not seeing the crimes,
For not living the misery,
Today my son, I salute you... For not being born..

Your Dad,
Bilal

July 22, 2006





Revised Version

You are lucky my son
for not being here today,
witnessing these atrocious acts
of human vulgarities
towards your fellow man.

Times held beauty here- in Beirut-
filled with romance, roses and Parisian perfumes.
Pleasurable hours; dancing, singing and smoking Cuban cigars.
Times overflowing with laughter and a sense of belonging
to land, family and friends.

I remember shared walks down the Mono,
and my Italian friend inhaling the purity of this place--
the essence of Jasmine intermingled with fresh summer air.

I remember sitting in restaurants,
music playing, glasses meeting
and the taste of exquisite food
while listening to the melodious unification
of worldwide accents.

Oh yes, my son,
how I remember the nightly drives
through silent disctricts heading toward
The Lady Of Lebanon
with your mom by my side
licking shawarma grease off our fingers.
We'd delight at the sight of clashing waves
against the million year old rocks of Jounyeh,
then pass by the ornamented Sidon Mosque.

How can I forget
the old houses in Tyre,
and its narrow streets.
The hopeful faces of humble people
finding joy in what little they have,
uncomplaining.

These days, once recent, are now gone my son.
A simple fortnight made our country bleed my son.

Today restaurants are deserted,
glasses shattered.
The lone music of high pitched wailing
bouncing off abandoned shapeles streets.
Today the food is poisoned, bread stale,
and fruits decayed.

And the waves, my son,
their white foam is turned to lava,
clashing onto beds of corpses, fire, and rubble.
Jasmine scent drenched by fear's essence
and the acrid odor of blood.
The songs; croaking lamentations
formed over mass gravesites.

Today,
your Italian mom has fled my arms
while Tyre embraces death.
Boxes once filled with delicacies
now home shredded corpses.
Wine glasses overflowing with tears.

Today, I feel something akin to relief,
my son.
You shall not witness destruction,
nor these crimes against humanity.
You shall not taste
the bitterness of unjustifiable retaliation,
nor know the true meaning of misery.

Today, my son,
I salute you for not being born.

[Guest_Cathy_*]

Hi Dani,

I wanted to let you know I'd been here. I'm walking my kids uptown and then I will be back to comment on this. See you soon!
Cathy

[Guest_Cathy_*]

Hi Dani,

This is so tragic! I don't think we really realize just how bad things really are because we aren't there to experience them.

You are lucky[,] my son[,]
for not being[you're not] here today,
witnessing these atrocious acts
of human vulgarities
towards your fellow man.

Times[Life] held beauty here- in Beirut-
filled with romance, roses and Parisian perfumes.
Pleasurable hours{;}[:] dancing, singing[,] and smoking Cuban cigars{.}[;]
Times overflowing with laughter and a sense of belonging
to land, family and friends.

I remember shared walks down the Mono,
and my Italian friend inhaling the purity of this place--
the essence of Jasmine intermingled with fresh summer air. Summer winds laced with the essence of Jasmine...

I remember sitting in restaurants,
music playing, glasses meeting[,]
and the taste of exquisite food
while listening to the melodious unification
of worldwide accents.

Oh yes, my son,
how I remember the[memories of] nightly drives
through silent dis{c}tricts heading toward
The Lady Of Lebanon[,]
with your mom by my side[,]
licking shawarma grease off our fingers.
We'd delight at the sight of clashing waves
against the million year[age-]old rocks of Jounyeh,
then pass by the ornamented Sidon Mosque.

How can I forget
the old houses in Tyre,
and its narrow streets.
The hopeful faces of humble people
finding joy in what little they have,
uncomplaining.

These days, once recent, are now gone[.] my son.
A simple fortnight made our country bleed[,] my son.

Today [R]estaurants are deserted,
glasses shattered.
The lone music of high[-]pitched wailing
bounc[es]{ing} off abandoned shapeles streets[,]{.}
[s]Today the food is poisoned, bread stale,
and fruits decayed.

And the waves, my son,
their white foam is turned to[bubbling] lava,
clashing onto beds of corpses, fire, and rubble.
Jasmine scent drenched by fear's essence Already used...
and the acrid odor of blood.
The songs; croaking lamentations
formed over mass gravesites.

Today,
your Italian mom has fled my arms
while Tyre embraces death.
Boxes once filled with delicacies
now home[house] shredded corpses[,]{.}
[w]ine glasses overflowing with tears.

Today, I feel something akin to relief,
my son.
You shall not witness destruction,
nor these crimes against humanity.
You shall not taste
the bitterness of unjustifiable retaliation,
nor know the true meaning of misery.

Today, my son,
I salute you for not being born.

Of course, it's your choice. *smiles* Use or lose as you see fit.
Cathy

You are lucky, my son,
you're not here today,
witnessing atrocious acts
of human vulgarities
towards your fellow man.

Life held beauty here- in Beirut-
romance, roses and Parisian perfumes.
Pleasurable hours: dancing, singing, smoking Cuban cigars;
laughter and a sense of belonging
to land, family and friends.

I remember shared walks down the Mono,
my Italian friend inhaling the purity of this place--
summer winds laced with the essence of Jasmine.

I remember sitting in restaurants,
music playing, glasses meeting,
the taste of exquisite food
while listening to the melodious unification
of worldwide accents.

Oh yes, my son,
memories of nightly drives
through silent districts heading toward
The Lady Of Lebanon,
your mom by my side,
licking shawarma grease off our fingers.
We'd delight at the sight of clashing waves
against age-old rocks of Jounyeh,
then pass by the ornamented Sidon Mosque.

How can I forget
the old houses in Tyre,
its narrow streets.
The hopeful faces of humble people
finding joy in what little they have,
uncomplaining.

These days, once recent, are now gone.
A simple fortnight made our country bleed, my son.

Restaurants are deserted,
glasses shattered.
The lone music of high-pitched wailing
bounces off abandoned shapeless streets,
food is poisoned, bread stale,
and fruits decayed.

And the waves, my son,
white foam is bubbling lava,
clashing onto beds of corpses, fire, and rubble.
Jasmine drenched by fear
and the acrid odor of blood.
The songs; croaking lamentations
formed over mass gravesites.

Today,
your Italian mom has fled my arms
while Tyre embraces death.
Boxes once filled with delicacies
now house shredded corpses,
Wine glasses overflow with tears.

Today, I feel something akin to relief,
my son.
You shall not witness destruction,
nor crimes against humanity.
You shall not taste
the bitterness of unjustifiable retaliation,
nor know the true meaning of misery.

Today, my son,
I salute you for not being born.

[JustDaniel]

It is hard for those of us who have not witnessed thes things first-hand to grasp the enormity of the feelings here experssed, Dani. I'm glad that you have a collaborator on this. Your version is much smoother.

Retaliation breeds retaliation that breeds retaliation that breeds retaliation that breeds retaliation...

It can only end when one 'side' risks ceasing the madness... and it's an awesome, seldom-taken risk.

The ending of this is stunning.

Love in Light, Daniel

P.S. I've missed interaction with you for too long, my friend.

[Siren]

Hi there Cathy,

I can't express how grateful I am for your help on this. Thank you ever so much. I see a few things i can use.

I will work on the revision and share it's outcome soon.

Till then
Hugs
Dani

[Guest_Cathy_*]

I'm glad I could help. It's a very powerful piece ...

I'll be back to read it again!

Cathy

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi Dani,

I echo Cathy and Daniel’s comments. This is so tragic! We rarely seem to ‘see’ beyond our own blinders, and you have opened our eyes. This is a poignant piece that should be read and shared. Most of what I’ll critique below is pretty much the same as what Cathy did already (we must be on the same page).

You are lucky[,] my son[,]
for not being[you're not] here today,
witnessing these atrocious acts
of human vulgarities
towards your fellow man.

Times held beauty here {-} in Beirut-
filled with romance, roses and Parisian perfumes.
Pleasurable hours{;} dancing, singing[,] and smoking Cuban cigars{.}[;]
Times overflowing with laughter and a sense of belonging
to land, family and friends.

I remember shared walks down the Mono,
and my Italian friend inhaling the purity of this place--
the essence of Jasmine intermingled with fresh summer air.
Summer’s essence intermingled with Jasmine.

I remember sitting in restaurants,
music playing, glasses meeting [clinking,]
and the taste of exquisite food[;]
while listening to the melodious unification
of worldwide accents.

Oh yes, my son,
how I remember the[memories of] nightly drives
through silent dis{c}tricts heading toward
The Lady Of Lebanon[,]
with your mom by my side[,]
licking shawarma grease off our fingers.
We'd delight at the sight of clashing waves
against the million year[age-]old rocks of Jounyeh,
then pass by the ornamented Sidon Mosque.

How can I forget
the old houses in Tyre,
and its narrow streets.
The hopeful faces of humble people
finding joy in what little they have,
un [lacking complain[ts]ing.

These days, once recent, are now gone[.] my son.
A simple fortnight made our country bleed[,] my son.

Today [R]estaurants are [now] deserted,
glasses shattered.
The lone music of high[-]pitched wailing
bounc[es]{ing} off abandoned shapeles streets[,]{.}
Today [s]the food is poisoned, bread stale,
and fruits decayed.

And the waves, my son,
their white foam is turned to[bubbling] lava,
clashing onto beds of corpses, fire, and rubble.
Jasmine scent drenched by fear's essence
and the acrid odor of blood.
The songs; croaking lamentations
formed over mass gravesites.
What a potent stanza Dani.

Today,
your Italian mom has fled my arms
while Tyre embraces death.
Boxes once filled with delicacies
now home[house] shredded corpses[,]{.}
[w]ine glasses overflowing with tears.

Today, I feel something akin to relief,
my son.
You shall not witness destruction,
nor these crimes against humanity.
You shall not taste
the bitterness of unjustifiable retaliation,
nor know the true meaning of misery.

Today, my son,
I salute you for not being born.

Wow Dani – take or toss what you will and know I am moved by the sentiments in this telling piece.

~Cleo

[Siren]

Dear Cathy, Daniel and Lori,

Pls forgive my absence from this. So much has happened in the past month. Worry for my family's safety and the whole countr sucked out any warmth I used to feel.

I will be back to this maybe after I get back from Damascus.

Thank you all for the help and sweet thoughts.

Daniah

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi Dani.

Stay safe, be well and big HUGS!



Thinking of you!
Lori

[JustDaniel]

Thank you for the brief interchange online today, Daniah...

and you know that my thoughts and prayers will be with you in your visit with family in Damascus. Any time we see your voice here, it is a blessing. We know that your heart and mind have been deeply troubled in the events that have transpired of late. We're all glad for the lessening of hostilities and fear with you of what the future holds.

We pray His protection upon you and yours.

deLighting in your sensitivity, Daniel