Every time I hear of the city Beirut
I dream of what dreams are made of
There are city lights that wave at me
With a luminosity that cuts through my being
Little chairs with patrons chilling
In a modality unknown to me
But harming with smiles
That feel half drunk and half alive.
My feet rattle off ancient cobblestones
On the better walks of town
But I find the dead alleys
And imagine how many eyes are watching me.
I have companions here
Who sing with instruments only found
Along this edge of the world
And in Gypsy caravans roaming the deadlands.
My lover sleeps with the curtains open
And silk pyjamas that are usually draped
Upon the wooden chair that’s older than I
She burns a scent I can only find here
With old books I cannot read
But admire the covers and the ghosts within
She kisses with a heavy lip
And smiles with a curious snarl
That keeps me here dreaming.