أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower] Quotes

“Broken tree branches
Scattered flowers
Bent street light poles
Cut electricity lines
Dead birds
But the weather is beautiful, and the breeze is refreshing…
My heart is full of an after-storm peace and tranquility…
The real tranquility is the one that follows not precedes the storm…

(July 1, 2015)”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“My mom gave me life
When I gave her back silence not a grandchild,
She reconsidered the entire cycle of life…

(July 1, 2015)”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Our Contemporary Lexicon]
As years go by
And lives are wasted,
As we lose everything,
We discover the real meaning
Of the words shaping our lives…
Words that have filled our contemporary lexicon,
We know the words yet don’t fully grasp them,
And the more we hear them,
The more confusing they become…
Words like
War
Bank
Justice
Media
Capital
Investment
Advertisement
Weapon
School
University
Hospital
Humanitarian organization
Civil society
Ethnicity
Race
Religion
Modernity
Backwardness
Secularism
Trade
Love
Family
Prison
Home
Immigration
Visa
Passport
Borders
Democracy
Elections
Car
Plane
And countless others…
Words that may pretend to oppose each other publicly,
Yet are secretly in bed with each other
Making love, acting as synonyms and French kissing…
Words that in reality
Walk hand in hand and are united against us
To achieve the mutual goal of depriving most of us
Of having a decent life with dignity…
Words used by allies and foes alike, as needed!
Words that have become rustier than our souls,
Yet their fake glitter continues to deceive millions upon billions
Of people believing faithfully in them
Or working hard to access their imagined benefits...
As years go by,
We learn late in the game
That all the meanings we ascribed to such words
Are in fact killing us
Raping us
In the homeland
On the border
And in exile!
As the game continues,
At a late hour,
We discover that
Our worries and sleepless nights
In hopes of a bearable world
Have all been wasted in vain…
What is happening today
Has happened throughout history…
And the game shall continue
Until we reexamine this lexicon
Until we destroy it
And rewrite all its pages
To erase all the monsters its words
Within all of us…

(February 6, 2015)”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“Love wasn’t created to make us happy,
But to test our ability
To endure pain and silence
To teach us how to sing
While enduring…”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“We don’t say ‘I love you’
To those we really love.
Only to those we are deceiving
Or wish to console…”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“Like a scared child
singing to himself in the dark,
most people sooth themselves
With the worn-out phrase:
'Life goes on…'
without being able to remember anymore
Why should it go on?
Few are those who dare to ask:
How could life go on under such lifeless conditions?”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“Under this pine tree I let you down and you let me down. Under this tree, you betrayed me and I betrayed you. Right here, I forgot you and you forgot me. Under this pine that they call 'evergreen' we both discovered that nothing lasts forever.”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“The Meaning of 'Home'

As I travel from one city to another

From one country to another

From one sorrow to another,

I encounter thousands of faces:

In streets, shops, parks, and cafés.

They all ask me the same painful question:

'Where are you from?'

As if they know, I am from a place that lost itself and lost me

On a long, cold, and sad winter night.

They ask me: 'What is your country known for?'

I tell them: 'My country is known for exporting sad stories,

refugees, and displaced people.

All those who were cursed by being born in it.'

Similar questions continue to be asked in cocktail parties,

In hypocritical and mediocre gatherings,

In conferences and boring meetings.

Some pretentiously ask me: 'How do you define "home"?'

I respond with Ghassan Knafani’s words ringing in my ears:

'Home is for all of this not to happen.'

April 19, 2014”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[From the Crumbs of Days]
(1)
For years
I have wandered the world
and witnessed
the same tragedy
beneath different masks
and disguises:
the tragedy of a world
governed by endless variations
of the same worn-out,
destructive creed:
"Me and my brother against my cousin;
me and my cousin against the stranger."

(2)
We may differ
in shape and color.
We may differ
in gender
and desire.
We may differ
in our philosophies of life,
in our visions,
dreams,
and priorities.
But our sweat
and our labor
are the same
everywhere.
So let us stand together
and keep watch
against anyone
who seeks to steal
even a single drop
of our sweat
for private gain.

(3)
Under dictatorships,
99.9 percent
of the wretched
vote
for the same president.
Under capitalism,
99.9 percent
of the wretched and deceived
buy
the same products
and the same brands.
Woe,
utter woe,
to the society
where both systems
meet.

(4)
Most leaders
of the "post-revolution"
are vultures
who know less
about hunting
than about feeding
on the corpses
of those who died
faithful to the revolution
and its principles.
Such is the paradox
of most revolutions.

(5)
When exile surrounds you
from every direction,
from every side,
does the word
"choice"
still mean anything?

(6)
The true revolution
will come
when the poor
and the oppressed
decide to break
the Ten Commandments
until the rich
and the criminals
choose to obey them first.
The true revolution
is not
turning the other cheek
to criminals
and opportunists.
The true revolution
has always been,
and will always be:
an eye for an eye,
a tooth for a tooth,
and the guilt
belongs to the one
who struck first.

(7)
Every person is ugly
if you look
long enough.
And beautiful
if you look
longer still.

(8)
Just as wheat fields
cannot grow
or flourish
in the shade
of trees,
an honest intellectual
cannot grow
or flourish
in the shadow
of power
and authority.

(9)
I am less interested
in the act of looking
than in observing
the gaze
of the one
who looks.

(10)
There is no happiness
greater than the happiness
of descending
into our pain,
our disappointments,
and our sorrows,
to understand them,
and scatter their seeds
across the fields
of tomorrow.

(11)
How much time
we waste
trying to change
other people.
And how much time
other people waste
imagining
they are changing...

(12)
We do not speak
about things
because we understand them.
For when we truly
understand,
there is no longer
any need
for words.

October 20, 2015”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Images from Distant Places]

(1)
In distant villages,
you always find
the same images:
fields,
livestock,
houses of worship,
and small, simple shops.
That is all
their people need
to sustain life.

(2)
“Can you stay with me forever?”
she asked,
holding him tightly
in her arms.
“I’m sorry.
I can’t.
My next flight leaves
in two and a half hours,”
he answered
with feigned concern,
after placing
a kiss on her forehead.

(3)
As I walked
through an old street
in Bucharest,
a street
devoured, swallowed,
and vomited by time,
I caught sight
of a poor homeless man
combing his hair
in the side mirror
of a modern car.

(4)
The shape of the eyes
does not matter,
nor their color.
It does not matter
whether they are blue,
black,
or green.
What matters
is that the moment
you look into them,
you know
they have seen
too much.

(5)
A stranger asked me
how I chose
my path in life.
I answered:
I chose nothing,
my friend.
My path is like being forced
to sit on a plane
through a long,
long journey,
on the condition
that I keep my seat belt fastened
until the end.
And here I am,
still sitting,
unable to move,
unable to walk,
unable even
to throw myself
from the plane.

(6)
After a long time
of searching
and observing,
I discovered
that the favorite hiding place
of sorrow,
despair,
and desolation
is beneath suits
and neckties,
beneath evening gowns.

(7)
Ah, my “poet” friend,
do you know
that the bouquet
of wildflowers
in the vase
on your table
is not a source
of inspiration
or creation?
It is only
a reminder
of a massacre
that happened recently
in some field,
against a bunch
of miserable flowers
destined to be cut
from their roots,
and to wither
on your table
without fresh air,
while you write
and express
your trivialities
and nonsense.

September 2, 2015”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Night Insomnia]
(1)
Night knocked
at my door.
When I opened it,
it fled, frightened
by so much darkness.

(2)
Broken branches,
scattered blossoms,
bent lampposts,
downed wires,
dead birds.
Yet the weather is beautiful,
the breeze gentle,
and my heart is filled
with the calm
that comes after a storm.
True stillness
comes after the storm,
not before it.

(3)
My mother gave me life.
And when I gave her
silence instead of a grandchild,
she began to reconsider
the cycle of life.

(4)
I lost all hope
when I discovered
that a single home cannot contain me,
a single life
is not enough,
and a single death
will not suffice.

(5)
He went to the café,
to the bar,
to the restaurant,
to the nightclub.
Then he wandered
through the night,
from one street
to another,
unaware
that the one
who truly loved him
was waiting at home,
alone.

(6)
The streets are empty
this morning,
inhabited only
by people.
And the sky
is full of blue.

(7)
Bread is worthless
without
the mouths of the poor.

(8)
I arrange words
and polish sentences,
revise pages,
read them again
and again,
cast one last glance
over them
before tearing them up
and throwing them
into the trash.

(9)
My God,
grant me faith,
but do not make me
a believer.

(10)
Destruction is reciprocal
only to the extent
that love once was.

July 1, 2015”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[The Imprisoned Poem]
There,
in my deepest depths,
there is a poem
imprisoned,
buried,
bound,
breathless,
for a very long time.
A poem
about futility,
about the frailty
of words,
about cries
that, if released,
would meet no fate
but silence,
or writing
on the walls
of indifference.
There is an ancient poem
imprisoned in my soul,
waiting impatiently
to come out.
But timing
has always
betrayed it.
And today,
it is like a cat
trapped indoors,
gazing sorrowfully
through the window glass,
watching
everything that passes,
without ever being allowed
to truly take part.
And like that cat,
whenever my poem
grows tired
of watching
daily reality,
it falls asleep
for a long time,
then wakes
to find
the game unchanged,
the strings
still moving
the puppets,
still shaping
the world.
So it looks
through the window glass
with sorrow,
then goes back
to sleep,
dreaming of a reality
less alienating
than this one.
And it has promised me
not to leave
my depths
until everyone rises,
so that its release
may finally
mean something.

November 17, 2014”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Cats and the City]
Place:
an Arab city.
Time:
the age of defeat,
a new age
of humiliation
in the twenty-first century.
General condition:
“Elegant” neighborhoods,
lavish houses
with walls
the color of graves,
beautiful gardens,
and flowers
no one dares
to smell.
Imported cars,
imported devices,
and endless shops
for every consumer good
the mind can imagine.
Between one restaurant
and the next,
a shop
for clothes and gifts.
All built
with perfect skill
upon the crust
of the same old wound,
a wound ready
to bleed profusely
at the first scratch
of a fingernail.
After walking
some distance,
the lights disappear,
the glitter disappears,
and a pitch-darkness
falls
over the city.
Suddenly,
I find myself alone,
hearing nothing
but the sound
of my footsteps,
and the meowing
of thin cats
covered in the soot
of daily life.
A desperate, miserable cat
approaches me,
begging
for its daily bread,
or perhaps
its monthly one.
I give it
a piece of my sandwich.
It takes it
and runs away quickly
to celebrate
the bite of a lifetime,
leaving me alone
in the dark,
wondering:
Which reflects
the city’s truth more,
the luxurious neighborhoods
under the lights,
or the cats
starving
in the dark?

June 8, 2014”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Definition of Homeland]
As I travel
from city to city,
from one strange country
to another,
from one sorrow
to the next,
thousands of unfamiliar faces
meet me
in streets,
shops,
parks,
and cafés,
and ask me
the same question:
“Where are you from?”
As if they know very well
that I come
from a place
that was lost,
and lost me with it,
in a sorrowful
winter night.
And they ask:
“What is your homeland
known for?”
I answer:
“My homeland is known
for exporting sorrow,
emigrants,
exiles,
and all those cursed
by being born there.”
The same questions
are asked
at cocktail parties,
gatherings of hypocrites,
conferences,
and tedious meetings.
Some ask:
“How do you define
homeland?”
I say:
“Homeland
is the place
that misses you
when you leave.”
And when you are not
in your homeland,
you are everywhere—
in the wide, vast world.
And whoever is
everywhere
is nowhere.

April 19, 2014”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[The Applause Complex]
Nothing in this world
frightens me
except applause.
Yes,
I suffer
from what might be called
a chronic
applause complex.
For applause
is the bread of hypocrites,
the talent
of the cunning,
the praise of liars
for other liars,
at the expense
of the wretched
and the weary.
Whenever I hear
the sound of applause,
I remember
all the filthy hands
that clapped
for wars,
massacres,
and slaughter.
All the hands
that clapped
for parties,
ideas,
and religions
that kill humanity
and the human being
every day,
a thousand times
and more.
I feel the applauders
suffocating me,
violating me
in broad daylight.
I feel their hands
like hard slaps
across the faces
of all the strugglers,
the fighters,
the creators
who battle in darkness,
silently
and bitterly,
to secure
a breath of freedom,
the bread of dignity,
and a fair share
of water,
sun,
and green earth
for the unknown ones
for the forgotten,
or the deliberately ignored,
by those busy applauding,
striking palm
against palm,
instead of letting
their fingers embrace
the triggers
of freedom’s rifles,
to fire
the bullets of true revolt
at the wolves
who devour
our humanity
every day,
a thousand times
and more.
And if the people
one day desire life,
they must stop
applauding,
they must cease
their shouting.
Only then
will they awaken
from their long slumber,
from their deep sleep.

April 3, 2014”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Here Lies the Deceased in Peace]
Here lies the deceased
in peace,
so do not
disturb him.
Here, at last,
the deceased enjoys
eternal rest,
after all your noise,
after you fought him
all his life.
What do you want
from him now
after he has gone?
Do you want him
to rise
and see the light
again?
Thank you
for your heartfelt wishes,
but the deceased
whispered in my ear
last night,
saying:
“I do not want light.
I want peace.
Peace is my wish,
and at last
it has come true.”
So leave
the deceased alone.
Let him be,
after a bitter life
and long suffering
with you.
And believe him
for once
when he says:
“I do not want light,
only peace.”
So let him
rest
in peace.

January 15, 2014”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Eternal Companions of the Road]
The old companions of the road met
in a small café:
Time,
Loneliness,
and Death.
Time said to Loneliness:
You will not last long,
for in the end
I will destroy you.
Loneliness replied:
And I will drain
your minutes
and your seconds,
and nothing will delight you,
no matter what you do,
no matter how you try.
After a brief silence,
Death spoke.
Loneliness vanished…
and Time passed.

June 20, 2013”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[The Love of Trees]
Do you see those trees
there in the forest?
Do you see how they stand
beside one another
in silence?
That is how I want you
beside me.
Do you see the distance
between one tree
and the next?
Do you see how close they are,
and yet
they do not invade
each other’s lives?
That is how I want you
to love me.
Do you hear
the silence of the trees?
Do you hear
the rustle of their leaves
as they speak to one another
with calm
and tenderness,
their voices rising only
when the wind of hardship blows?
That is how I want you
to speak to me.
And if you must climb
my body,
if you must wrap
your soul around mine,
look at that climbing plant
turned into a green carpet,
adorning the trunk
of that great tree
without choking it,
without disfiguring it.
That is how I want you
to hold me.
That is how I want you
to embrace me.
Or are you satisfied
only with purely human love?
A love that invades
and possesses
more than it frees?
A love that disfigures
more than it beautifies?
If so,
let us leave
in silence,
and forget everything,
now.
May 27, 2015”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[The Vase]
The bouquet in the vase
is two weeks old,
or more.
All the flowers
have withered
and died.
The sight resembles
a mass grave
in the room’s
stale air.
Each flower died
in its own way.
The first,
the largest of them all,
opened
to its farthest limit,
each petal drying
to its final breath.
The second
seems to have tried
to bend
in its last days,
so it broke its neck
and withered quietly.
The third
tried to close in
upon itself
when it sensed
the end was near,
so it shriveled,
contracted,
sealed inside itself.
The fourth
began, in its final days,
to offer itself
as sacrifice
for everything around it.
So you see it
having shed
most of its petals,
withered,
half exposed,
nearly naked,
save for a petal
or two.
The fifth
never fully bloomed.
Perhaps it understood
the futility of opening.
So it dried
and died
half-open,
still upright.
The sixth
died young,
before its time,
without ever having
the chance
to breathe the air.
Even the water
in the vase
has changed color,
turned into
a decomposing corpse.
The deaths differ,
but the ending
is one.
April 12, 2013”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Sleep]
The great clock
in the living room
struck twice,
announcing
two in the morning.
He heard the two chimes
on his way
to the kitchen.
He poured himself
a glass of milk,
hoping the milk
might be kind to him
and bring sleep
to his tired eyes,
after doctors’ advice
had failed him
for the past
forty years.
He sat
on a wooden chair
in the kitchen
and drank the milk
in one swallow.
Then he entered
the living room
and found
a dim light
still on.
He looked around
at the furniture:
the oak chairs,
the clay vessels
he had gathered
from his travels
around the world,
the costly oil paintings
by the hands
of renowned artists,
and the rare books.
This living room
was truly
a summary
of his life’s journey,
of his achievements,
of all he had done
and all he had not done
in the past
seventy-five years.
He sat for a while
on a comfortable sofa
near the window,
and remembered
scenes from his former life:
how all his childhood wishes
had come true,
how he had done
and obtained
everything he wanted,
how life
had given him everything,
but in return
had taken sleep from him
in the middle
of his years.
If everything
has a price,
was this
the price of his life?
And suddenly
he thought:
Ah,
if everything
were placed on one scale
and sleep
on the other,
I would choose
sleep.
How tired he was.
And yet
he could not sleep.
He had always hated
this feeling:
not sleepy enough
to sleep,
not able
to do anything else
from the weight
of exhaustion.
Well,
these thoughts
had tired him enough.
He had been thinking
about this problem of sleep
for forty years,
to no avail.
Was it a curse
that had fallen on him
from where
he did not know?
Or was he staying awake
in preparation
for the eternal sleep
to come?
Now he was ready
to return
to his bedroom
after another long night
of sleeplessness.
He turned off
the dim light
in the living room
and began
to climb the stairs.
He vanished completely
into the thick darkness.
There was nothing left
to see in the house.
Nothing
but darkness,
so much darkness.
And suddenly
the clock struck
four times,
announcing
four in the morning.

March 15, 2013”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[The Pine Tree]
Last year,
on this very day,
beneath the pine tree
on the eastern slope
of the mountain,
where we used to meet,
embrace,
talk through the night,
quarrel,
weep
and laugh.
Where we used
to confess the truth,
and lie
to one another
for years
and years.
Last year,
on a beautiful autumn day
hiding a bitter winter
beneath its yellow cloak,
beneath that same pine tree
they call
evergreen,
I failed you,
and you failed me.
Beneath that tree,
I betrayed you,
and you betrayed me.
Beneath it,
I forgot you,
and you forgot me.
Beneath the evergreen
pine tree,
we discovered
that nothing
lasts.

February 19, 2013”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[The Tree of Life]
I am an apple
hanging
from the tree of life.
Since the branch of time
first held me,
I have known
that falling
is inevitable.
But my fall
is decided by no gods,
no weather,
no Newtonian gravity,
nor any law
of this hollow world.
My fall is governed only
by the moment
of falling.
And though I do not know
when that moment will come,
I understood long ago
that life is nothing
but preparation
for it.
Every choking sorrow,
every instant of pain,
is a step
in the right direction.
Those who think of death
only on their deathbed
are like students
preparing for an exam
during the exam itself.
The final moment
is a fall
into endless emptiness.
I will not try in vain
to fill the void—
not with religion,
not with possessions,
not with shining achievements,
not even
with love.
For love, too,
is hollow.
All I can do
is distract myself
with writing,
as I await
the moment of falling
from the tree.
I write
not to cling to life,
but to prepare
for death.
And in a moment
of weakness,
I looked back,
only to find
that the road
had been nothing
but a night journey
through a snowstorm
that erased every trace
of my former steps.

January 8, 2013”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[What If?]
What if
the salaries of presidents
and military commanders
were equal
to what is paid
to the lowest-ranking soldiers?
Would we ever see
another war
on earth?

What if
a new law were passed:
that the defensive lines
in every war
must be made up
of the sons of the rich,
of princes,
kings,
and political leaders?
Would we ever see
a new war
again?

What if
the punishment
for saying I love you
without truly meaning it
were death?

How many lovers
would remain
in the world?

What if
all the dead
were granted the right
to return to life?

Would they truly agree
to come back?

And if they did,
would they die again—
of cerebral shock—
at what has become
of this ugly planet?

What if
every act we commit,
every word
we utter,
became international law?

What would we do?
What would we say?

Would we fall silent,
and cease all action
forever?

What if
the price of every word
I write
were a drop of blood
from my body?
What would I write,
and…

December 16, 2012”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Harvest of Love… Harvest of Time]

There is no difference
between your love
and death.

Both arrive
as harvesters,
sickle in hand,

in the season of reaping—

after years
of drought and barrenness,
of hunger,
of waiting.

Both of you come

to gather
the flowers of my life,

to distill
the scent of years,

and seal it
in memory’s glass.

You will place
what remains
of my wilted flowers

between the pages
of a book

touched by nothing
but dust.

They say
love has its hour,
and death its hour.

I say:

we know the hour of love
only when death’s hour
has come.

Now the harvest of death
draws near,

and nothing
can stop it.

The wheat has yellowed,

bowing
to surrender its grain

at spring’s end.

And however generous
summer may be

with rain,

it cannot make it green
again.

Who has ever turned
time back?

So do not worry
for me.

Death
no longer frightens me

now that life
has become

more still…

more dead
than death.

December 12, 2012”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“You weep
thinking I’m off to a better place..
I weep
thinking I’ve left you at a place
better than the one I’m going to...
Oh, the game of places
Oh, the winds of misfortune...”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“Dear God,
Grant me faith, but don’t make me faithful.
(July 1, 2015)”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“I lost all hope
Ever since I discovered
That one home can’t contain me
One life is not enough for me
And one death won’t do…

(July 1, 2015)”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“The darkness of the night knocked on my door,
When I opened,
It ran away in fear…

(July 1, 2015)”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“[Imprisoned Poem]
Somewhere deep inside me
There lies an imprisoned poem
A poem that is
Buried
Chained
And holding its breath
Ages ago…
A poem about futility
The fragility of words
About alarms, if sounded,
They’d be either destined to silence
Or get written on the walls of indifference…
There is an ancient poem
Imprisoned in my soul
Waiting to be released impatiently,
In due time…
Like a house cat
this imprisoned poem keeps eagerly watching
Every move outside the window,
Without any participation…
And like a house cat,
Whenever this imprisoned poem
Gets exhausted by the triviality of reality,
It sleeps for long hours
Only to wake up and find
The status quo unchanged
And the strings moving the puppets uncut…
It then looks out the window in sorrow
And goes back to sleep once again
To dream of a less ugly world…
My imprisoned poem has vowed not to release itself
From the deepest points in my soul
Until everyone else is awake
For its release to be meaningful…

(November 17, 2014)”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]

“Nothing in this world scares me
More than applause!
Yes, I suffer from what can be called
‘Acute Applause Syndrome’!
Applause the bread of the hypocrites
The talent of the frauds
The compliments of liars
For other liars…
…
Each time I hear an applause,
I’m reminded of all the dirty hands
That applauded
Wars
Genocide
And massacres…
I’m reminded of all the hands that applauded
Political parties
Ideologies
And religions
That kills humanity and humans every day…
I feel the clappers holding my breath
And raping me in daylight…”
― Louis Yako, أنا زهرة برية [I am a Wildflower]