DIRT
When someone immigrates,
Leaves his country and flees,
He will carry as much as he can:
Gold, silver, money,
Pictures, documents, identity.
But when an artist
Forced to leave his land
Brings his bag packed with dirt,
People express surprise
And think he is insane.
In fact, they are ignorant.
They must understand
A real artist and poet
Can't live far away
From his land.
That is why
I need the handful of soil
From my land, my country––
For my heart,
For my poem.
I want it to be my pillow
To rest my head on.
And when I die
I want it to be poured
All over my body,
On my face,
On my heart.
1-7-08 Yassin