You see, a place is a home
when your heart is at peace and harmony with it.
But my place is a home of caskets
and inside of it, you will find
bones of children wrecked by bombs;
you will find spilled blood of fathers
who left for work and never returned;
you will find ruined bodies belonging to mothers
who didn’t pass the night after the departure of the herdsmen;
you will find shattered skulls of brothers
who were test sites for hatred and violence;
you will find tears of sisters whose bodies
were made canvass for rape and abuse.
My place is an abode begging to be called home.
