Home.
A place that represents the origins of every person.
A place that should represent the beginning and end of my life.
A place whose earth I loved.
A home that was deprived of its foundations through exploitation by foreign rulers.
A home where the feeling of freedom was dishonourably suppressed.
A home where the cries of freedom are suffocated with hot lead.
You ask:
Who clipped my wings to stop me from flying?
Who poured hot lead into my throat so that I do not call out?
The cries of freedom in my home were deadened.
Home is my native language.
I want to be the ruler of my own life.
Home is my heart.
I want to be the ruler of my own realm, no broader than the
Width of my shoulders.
Home is my personality.
I have chained it up in my innermost place, so that its cries do not reach the outside and
cannot be silenced by strangers.
Nico, my feelings. The name lends them life.
Nico, astonishment about people
Who instead of quiet sleep look for a place to sleep quietly.
They flee so that they can dream again.
National borders make me sigh, because without nations there would be no colonisation.
Sleep makes me sigh, because without it I would not know the taste of death.