പാസ്പോര്‍ട്ട്

The Passport
Marcel Khalifé

They didn’t recognise me in the shadows
blotting out my colors in that passport
To them, my wound was an exhibit
for a snap-happy tourist
They didn’t recognise me
Oh don’t leave my palm without a sun,
for the trees and all the rain songs know about me
Don’t leave me pale like the moon!

All the birds that followed my hand
to the distant airport gate
all the wheat fields
all the prisons
all the white tombs
all the borders
all the waving handkerchiefs
and all the eyes
were with me, but
were dropped from my passport!

Stripped of a name, an identity!
On a soil I nourished with my own hands?
Job’s cry fills the sky:
Don’t make me an example twice!

My gentlemen! My prophets,
don’t ask the trees for their names
Don’t ask the valleys who their mother is,
from my forehead bursts the sword of light
and from my hand springs the river

All the people’s hearts
are my nationality
So rid me of this passport!

ഒരു മറുപടി കൊടുക്കുക

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