syria

Syria
In the ugly streets of Homs I lied on my back snipers´ fire hit
walls and filled my nose with cement dust and the horrid
smell of early death, the aftermath of abused young men
who have only murder and agony as a leading light to their
short future that holds no promise of peace.  

Beside me a box shaped as a heart I knew it was a hand
grenade about to explode, soldiers came the grenade was
defused. They carried me in chair to the ocean´s strand.
High tide came I was free to join the dolphins, I had tried
life ashore it was fun for some time, but I always longed to
join my tribe, where I need no speak and just be.

We swim between the Azores and the coast of Portugal and
I`m bored to tears, which happens those who have grown out
of their old culture, but nevertheless I falsely warn dolphins
not to leave the sea, be tempted by the dry land´s pearls made
of tears spilt by us who will never get home, kitschy neon light
and New Orleans´ jazz like it sounded in 1964.