Winter has the taste of melancholy; my window puts on a cloak of glass, wraps its face with a shawl of lead and drops cold tears, each time universe shrinks.
Migrant birds have a travelling homeland in sky and more than an estrangement on earth. But a sparrow begs for bread inside a cement cage.
After we’d concluded all revolutions; that of the slaves, then that of the serfs, and lately that of the proletariat, then tightened our fists on screens and confiscated the silver of the moon, matters became remedy-less.
So, very soon, we’ll inaugurate the era of post-truth.
A homeland that climbs on the shoulders of the poor is a wooden horse full of mercenaries.
Troy, first and last, stands up from the ashes of conspiracy.
Love is a transitory state, always coming to its end when it is hanged on a hanger.
A homeland is a transitory state, always dying when flags turn into rags to hide genitalia of banks.
Slavery is a chronic state;
Here, my ceiling wipes out stars from my nights.
My colored fish thank me silently on the borders of their glass cage.
A homeland is just a handful of water keeping faces wet.
It is just a handful of grain for birds.
It is just a bed broader than an empire which the sun never leaves.
Homeland is just a jasmine flower, which turns its face to meet morning, without permission from nobody.