17 years with the blade of history buried in my chest.
I was born half refugee
My fair skin only barely containing the soul that is within me.
67 years of weight placed on my shoulders,
Balanced only by the love of a small land,
So far away,
Embedded in my only heart.
The blood is flowing through the streets of my city.
The blood is flowing through the streets of every city.
Children with their hands held high in resistance,
Watching their little fingers as they blacken
In the biting cold,
Hoping their defiance burns just bright enough
To sustain the fire of revolution.
17 years of apologies springing to my lips
In hopes of making you more comfortable.
But it seems you are unworthy of my apologies.
I'm sorry that my people, my family
Sit under the bombs your money funds.
I'm sorry the oil you desire
Sits hidden in the veins of our countries.
I'm sorry our dead children made you look like the enemy.
Maybe we should be more considerate
And die at the hands of others next time.
Someone you can condemn instead of pretending that your actions are justified.
I'm sorry that as these words leave my lips
You shift uncomfortably in your seats.
I'm sorry.
17 years of dreams sent to their deathbeds.
With no escape from bloodshed and heartaches
Painted pictures of the terrorist enemy
Looking surprisingly like me.
As I watch helpless as everything I hold dear to me
Is defiled and humiliated.
Sharp arrows digging deep into the aspirations
Of all those around me.
Left with a burning desire to do something.
If only to silence my mind to the rioting
For only a moment.
But my very being can have no peace.
Until my people can know peace
Until my people can forget the torture of starvation.
Until the fresh breeze of freedom blows through every street,
I will know no peace.
I will only recall distant memories
Of national anthems.
Humming in my ears,
In a tongue I hold so dear...
Mawtini...
موطني...
