Language of Wrong Dreams

I don’t dream about
the divine spirits of revolution
about ghosts in the shapes
of struggles, protests
and fights
blood and bombs.

I don’t dream about
a place where
rain is born to weave the rainbows
where from there is no exile
no head is bowed
no sins
no sorrow.

where every grief
each suffering
in silence
make up slogans.

Azadi. Azadi. Azadi

I don’t dream about
an isolated, lonely place of old magic
where in the long snowy evenings of winter
an old house is bombarded.
slowly, snow falls over the mutilated dead,
a shroud, to bury it all.

And buries it well.

through the burning broken roof
the smell of a memory evaporates
from the ancient paints
replacing an ancient smell of wounds.

the rust of the bloody bones
rests on the green grass
like the long-forgotten idea of peace.

I don’t dream about
birds gone mad in the mist of violence.
Fly away
Far away
hide in a hive of bees
disappear into the shadows,
listen to the growling of beasts
in the darkness that still remains.

I don’t dream about
dying like a massacre victim
in the language of the wrong dreams.
I don’t dream in the language of war
where there is nothing to lose but your chains.

I don’t dream a wrong dream seen
in the war of grace
of shame
of love
of treason
of resistance
of dead evenings of winter
when life flies out from the paradise
 as smoke from the barrel
after the shots are fired
and people disappear
to forget the ways
of weaving dreams
in the language of war.

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