She is

She is not,
The flames engulfing her youth;
Rather,
The chaos of her father’s country,
The country – once sanctuary.
She is,
The crimson – once green,
Of her mother’s blood,
Still seeping through autumn’s streets.

She is Diaspora,
By the way of disfigured demography,
Her dreams inscribed in chaos,
Her present buried so far in your history,
That there is nothing serene – left,
In her presence.
But you,
You still take the genocide,
Her mother’s, mother’s – mother,
Survived, And tell her,
The way she wears her history,
Makes her – beautiful .

Leaving her soul perpetually wondering,
How so much mourning,
Became man,
Entwined into flesh,
Like all of the missiles,
Plummeting into earth,
Stand before her.
Like you are the logical end,
To every conflict on her fingertips.
Cus you balance an entire nation- there.
But she,
She has never seen,
The places she names her digits after.

So when you take her by the hand,
She does not want you to wrap precious metals,
Around her fingers,
She wants to feel the friction of assimilation,
Between two halves of a country,
As syllables of broken mother tongues,
Fall to our feet,
So we can find pieces – that fit.

She wants your fingertips,
To fall between countries,
That four generations of distance,
Made home –  in,
Tell her, why her Home is not there..
Why the veins of that leaf- take her to the riverbank,
You write your poetry on.
Tell her why crimson is not red,
Why she knows the definition of occupation,
And why you love the way,
She wears her history.
You know this picture, perfectly.
She still loves your country, intimately.

So breathe an entire nation – down her spine,
So she can find a home,
She never had.

She still loves your country, intimately.

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