Too real
Times and times I catch
air in my palm.
I form it as I want
as power, strength
or flirt and play
with breast.
Creative in my mind.
But sadly I was right
guest was bored
so was host
unsure
child.
Displacement
Homelessness,
Refuge,
And exile
Are not words
They are acts.
Too real.
I couldn't change the shape.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem