If I had known / it was the last time I’d see you / I would never have looked away.
What should I carry / in the bag of exile?
When the war ends / I will paint the city’s walls / With all the colors we forgot.
I wait on pins and needles for the rising of the sun / To know I am fine.
There’s no use in lamenting / no use in pointing fingers / at every soul that drifts by.
My love, why are you silent? / Are you truly never coming back?
I ask myself this / when the sky turns red /when a mother screams for her children.
The sun will rise, though skies are grey / Amid the cries, we find our way.
We / Are knocked about. We / Weave bloody shrouds.
In the back of my mind / the year is different / I still live in my garden.
On the fronds of a fruitful palm tree, I used to dance with my beloved / after we were brought together by the coincidence of spring.
Why do I die every morning / as if I wake only to be buried?
