The Poem Is In My

If The Olive Trees Knew The Hands That Planted Them, Their Oil Would Become Tears.

My Homeland Is Not A Suitcase, And I Am No Traveller

I Learnt All The Words Worthy Of The Court Of Blood So That I Could Break The Rule I Learnt All The Words And Broke Them Up To Make A Single Word: Homeland.

Against Barbarity, Poetry Can Resist Only By Confirming Its Attachment To Human Fragility Like A Blade Of Grass Growing On A Wall While Armies March By.

The Days Have Taught You Not To Trust Happiness Because It Hurts When It Deceives.