Syria

Syria In the ugly streets of Homs I lied on my back snipers´ fire hit walls and filled my nose with cement dust and the horrid smell of early death, the aftermath of abused young men who have only murder and agony as a leading light to their short future that holds no promise of peace. Beside me a box shaped as a heart I knew it was a hand grenade about to explode, soldiers came the grenade was defused. They carried me in a chair to the ocean´s strand. High tide came I was free to join the dolphins, I had tried life ashore it was fun for some time, but I always longed to join my tribe, where I need no speak and just be. We swim between the Azores and the coast of Portugal and I`m bored to tears, which happens those who have grown out of their old culture, but nevertheless I falsely warn dolphins not to leave the sea, be tempted by the dry land´s pearls made of tears spilt by us who will never get home, kitschy neon light and New Orleans´ jazz like it sounded in 1964.