.
.
This path is filled with the carcass of bodies with desolate cities
There are voices buried on its soil
Of boys who live with broken shadows
To quench the fire on their tongue
And of girls who fold the moon in their breast
To carry the beauty of the night
.
On this path, you don’t ask men for direction
Some are living beings in dead bodies- life made them who they are
.
Home are not found in maps
We trace our ways through the echoes of our mother’s voice
Maps are sometimes wanderers
They are images painted by men with stolen dreams
.
On your way home
you’ll find boys chewing their pains by carrying their mothers on their head
some people must die before they live, some must live before they die- but not all would see their home again
there would be maidens who became dusty lanes for searching for love outside their heart
you’ll see dead memories fighting to stay alive
some battles must be lost to be won
you’ll cross rivers whose voices are stolen by the wind
.
On your way home
you’ll find the missing stories about girls without mothers
there’ll be memories of men who wake every night to the screams of strange people
mothers bodies would melt into ugly photographs
you’ll see girls dying for men whose world are different from theirs
you’ll see boys plucking their fate from the sky, sinking them in broken destinies
you’ll find more than a million reasons to remember the death of innocent bones
.
On your way home
You’ll find love in unripe souls
But teach your heart to wait for the ones at home
.
