Clouds are letters
from the dictionary of the sky
and rain becomes a curse upon literature
when it falls
on those without shelter
but turns into a love poem
when the scene is an embrace
My bottle remains empty
every time I try
to pour laughter into it
Clouds are a language
understood by all who pass beneath them
they know that a shower of bullets is coming
and the only shield
is the firmness of a house’s walls
and the evening gathering
the warmth in our voices
my mother’s breath into my palms
to ignite my body
so it can feel safe again
Clouds are fleeting lines
but my homeland has grown illiterate
it refuses to read them
the house has become a tent
the mother died of helplessness
and the child’s hand
left with her
hoping some part of his body
might stay warm
Clouds are paragraphs of existence
and now I am like a child
carrying a scar on his forehead
and hating it
It may add to his beauty
but to him
it is still a scarClouds write freely
but the children
have grown to hate the rain
and fear the shape of the sky
each time
it begins to reveal its own scars
