The Poem Is In My Hands, And

We Are Captives, Even If Our Wheat Grows Over The Fences/ And Swallows Rise From Our Broken Chains./ We Are Captives Of What We Love, What We Desire, And What We Are.

The Poem Is In My Hands, And Can Run Stories Through Her Hands.

Where Can I Free Myself Of The Homeland In My Body?

Exile Is More Than A Geographical Concept. You Can Be An Exile In Your Homeland, In Your Own House, In A Room.

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.