The Comedy of the Tragedy or Sputum to the sky

The sun deceived us
We were defeated by our grandfathers’ land
And the moon gave us whimper that we do not deserve

I speak
I learned deceit and was addicted to defeat
addicted to absence
Addicted to nostalgia
Addicted to pain
They have killed my challenge for convents
And they grumbled my nose in the mud a thousand times
They said:
We opened your grave
We drank your wine

I said:-
Your city is a toilet
They laughed and I escape

But I was addicted to escape and travel
Where I began to hate the stability
I hate my homeland, which has become crude, chasing me wherever I am
My identity became unbearable
Everything become unbearable
my hair colour
my skin
My voice
Even my hospice, which is doubtful anywhere, became unbearable
 
When will the sea hide me?
In its deep robe
I am the roaring
Who has forgotten dignity
pride
Highness
Or forgetfulness
To survive
Not to be live

I spit on the sky
And came back in my face

  Painting by Amir Khatib