from the article:

Children of Wars

We’re the children of wars that ate our languages and bequeathed us the language of blankness.

The last flame in her lamp the last sorrowful moans flowing from the edges in the map of this crying

we were uprooted until our hearts were torn apart like shredded cloud and suns multiplied from our skin from our bare feet on the pavement.

We’re the children of wars raised without respite grown old with the sorrow of a thousand years we’re no prophets nor legends nor Gods we’re the ones hanging on the slogans’ cross.

We’re the children of wars that ate our languages and gave us for a roof over our heads or any home only hunger.

We’re the children of wars that ate our languages and bequeathed us the bitterness of death in batches.

We’re the children of wars and its last guardians the last gravestones at its gates.

We wipe the tears of angels and sing all the forgotten songs to the tender anemone by the sea.

The Color of Blossom

We pray the color of the blossom sprouts the dream in us to cross the narrow darkness and hang our clothes on the sun to dry from all the tears of war and run with the memory of a child who forgives the country and plays barefoot next to the rubble