The arrest at the border and the truck ride to the border patrol office in the middle of the night is a blur, a hazy montage of images and sounds.
I'm not entirely sure about the logistics.
Was it the same place, the building we slept in for a few nights and the buidling I leaned against as soldiers emptied out my pink backpack and talked about my "good ass"? Or did we get back into the truck again to be taken to a third place?
There were at least two transfers, this one is not the first one. The first one sounds like dogs barking and bearing their teeth at you, that one will come later, maybe...
This poem takes me from the border detention center to the refugee camp in the outskirts of the city.
Being transferred, guided by officers, walking in a line, single file, empty eyes staring, walking to a truck to be taken to the next place that will hold us.
no. 1 The Transfer
My hands shiver on the paper
The pen
turning my sin into lines
confirming it
The walls
The world
shakes
The road, worm-like
twists in front of my eyes
towards a darkness
I can't hold
in my empty eyes
I look at the road
Angles of death
surround me
Dark figures
step after step
Numb
I set foot on the road
My hands
claw at the air that burns my skin
in vain
Hunched over step
The voice of gods echo in my ears
breaking the hollow kernel of my freedom.
July-4-2014
دستانم روی کاغذ می لرزند
قلم گناهم را خط می کند
و تایید
دیوارها
دنیا
می لرزد
جاده
کرم وار
جلوی چشمانم پیچ می خورد
به سوی تاریکی
خالی
به جاده نگاه می کنم
فرشته های مرگ دورادورم
قدم به قدم
پیکرهای سیاه
سست به جاده پا می گذارم
دستانم بیهوده به هوایی که پوستم را می سوزاند
چنگ می زنند
خموده قدم بر میدارم
طنین صدای خدایان در گوشم
هسته ی پوک آزادی ام را می شکند