when i speak
i do not really map out home
when the home erases the
paths towards it
it does not speak about
a misfortune
such is the rule of the pigeons
their sense of home is tattooed
on their feathers as light as
a paper where a letter about sorrow is written
as it is
things only become themselves
as air becomes guests of the curtains
they signify what presence is all about
it could be about us
or the others
there is no perfect map
to differences that scatter themselves like fingers
but soon when a prayer is formed
the hands cup like home
where as you see
we first began
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem