IN THE CRADLE OF MY ANCESTORS
I lived in the garbage of the slums of a fertile land.
I crossed the Mediterranean to wedge my dreams into bleak, unsanitary concrete blocks.
I am trapped in a thermal sieve filled with rats and cockroaches.
I miss the dust of the ruined roads of my homeland.
In the land of human rights, police brutality has disfigured my dignity.
Life in this chaotic dimension is a horror movie.
I think of the Grim Reaper every day, like a terrified inmate on death row.
I numb myself with cannabis to clear the darkness in my deranged mind.
Sleepless nights piled up over the years in the furnaces of decay.
A solitary existence, without ties, without love, without a story.
Dirty hands and a cold heart, fueled by adrenaline against the atrocities of misery.
I am a free spirit, detached from the tyranny of conformity.
If I don’t love you, I will tell you to your face, looking you straight in the eyes.
I am guilty of embracing the innocence of my transgressions.
Telling the truth in all circumstances is a blessing that sometimes gives birth to curses.
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