My country is not the one you are making now,
it is not nurtured with fear and distrust.
It is not your fancy of a reverberating–
war cry in the horizons, my anthem!
My country was peace, even when I was hungry,
and I could sleep under the pillars of your metro,
and I was not afraid of an eviction,
and thrown out from my tired dreams–
of a better future, like a kid deceived by its mother.
There were borders of blood stains
and barbed wires which tasted human flesh.
But there were hopes of trees growing each side
and roots crossing underground,
until you came like a magician!
You claim to make development
by shooting rockets to the moon
and making bullet trains
for those who have no time to live.
But not for me for sure,
for whom there is an ocean of unlived life,
like piles of rotten food waste from a star hotel
of never ending celebrations in front of my slum.
My country is not the one you are making now!
It is not the imagination of maggots
fermenting in your decayed brains;
though dead, still living
in my ignorance, your building blocks!
