Don’t write
That I am a refugee
I came to you with a life jacket
Without a suitcase
Don’t mention me on the streets of Anatolia
Or in the Greek houses
Don’t record with my registration
That I am the best letter of your alphabet
Don’t speak to me in the language of princes
Because I am a shepherd, who knows the valleys
And the wolves fear me
Don’t give me a passport
That embarrasses the airport
Or geography lessons
To teach us that oil streams from the ground in our land
Don’t write my name in newspapers
Or on the doors at the events:
What showing-off would that be
Don’t regard my homeland with the eyes of a compassionate journalist
Or in the sympathetic embrace of a woman passing by
Don’t read my poem, read my story
Don’t comment
Move on to your drinks
For I have a long night ahead
Thinking of the olive days