Let her be courtesan, scholar, or saint,
a peninsula of din, of color, and of gold,
a hub of rose sailing like a fleet
which scans the horizon for a harbor's tenderness.
Beirut has died a thousand times and been reborn a thousand times.
Beirut of a hundred palaces, Beryte of the stones
where pilgrims from everywhere have raised statues
that make men pray and wars begin...

Excerpt from "Beirut", Lebanon: Poems of Love and War by Nadia Tueni

I can hear Tueni, Hariri, Gmayel, and Fleihan turning in their graves. This was not what they wanted; it was certainly not what they died for. So much loss, so much blood, so much loss...