I’m trying to make a home
Out of a nomad’s
And the clothes beached on Italian coasts.
We used to use brittle wood
Now we gather bones.
Piecing our frail selves into upright fashion
In the belly of our broken nurseries.
Tugging on our corkscrew
I tied a cat’s paw around the hinges with the strands that fell.
This womb only knows how to make homes.
We used to not have doors,
English must’ve gotten to us,
Shut us out so much
We’ve caged ourselves in.
Now tell me why the caged bird sings
6 sons and 2 daughters to feed
This is no symphony for the opera house,
This is a sombre lullaby to hush their misty eyes.
Fact: Red is symbolic of war.
Fact: Burco is known for its red sand.
We’re fighting a battle with blood stained cremated bones.
When does one feel suffocated by the oxygen they breathe?
When living becomes synonymous with paralysis,
when the world becomes a tomb.
Choking on our cracked tongues,
Self becomes self destructive
the body becomes a war zone of its own.
We’re being lined up and numbered
at the watering hole.
Theres no water at the watering hole,
Just skulls filled with a nation’s tears.