A snow, a mist, maybe a ghost, a cloud,
On Lebanon's secluded high peaks
As praying souls, from the frosty ground
Up to the sky, a hazy fog slowly leaks.
I exhale a warmth, a strain I do shed,
An icy breeze with cedar wood scent
Through my nostrils to my deep heart is led,
And my sight falls upon the mighty age bent.
An upward hands with spiky dark green,
Happily burdened with the purest white
That glows with a chilling, eye blazing sheen.
At the Cedars Of God, my tenth I write.
Timeless are the words of sonnets they say,
Thus if I write them, they timelessly stay.
