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Felt slave from when,
I was forced, accepted,
To move and travel,
Using said documents.

Comes to me a poem,
By Iran's old poet.

Spring in mountains,
Weather is excellent,
There, many herd-owners,
Have gathered by fire.

They take the metal rods,
And heat them on embers.

Each wealthy gives a shape,
To bodies and ears,
Of the lamb, sheep, or ram.

Burned skin, animal,
With fire and metal,
As stamp and a mark.

Taking time went further,
Read the parts of Bible,
Felt sad and embarrassed,
Mankind is jar of shame.

In old book we can see,
Slaves and belonging...

Are we not the devils?
Is not now exact same?
With papers, documents!

Change is in appearance,
To cross the borders
We must have documents.

Love to live in desert, freedom!
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