By Marcel Khalife
They didn't recognize 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 recognize me..
Oh don't leave my palm without a sun,
for the trees and all the rain songs know 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 masters! 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's water.
All the people's hearts
are my nationality.
So rid me of this passport!