They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist who loves to collect photographs
They did not recognize me,
Ah . . .
Don’t leave the palm of my hand without the sun
Because the trees recognize me
Don’t leave me pale like the moon!
All the birds that followed my palm
To the door of the distant airport
All the wheat fields
All the prisons
All the white tombstones
All the borders
All the waving handkerchiefs
All the eyes
Were with me,
But they dropped them from my passport
Stripped of my name and identity
On soil I nourished with my own hands?
Today Job cried out
Filling the sky:
Do not make an example of me again!
Oh, Gentlemen, Prophets,
Do not ask the trees for their names
Do not ask the valleys who their mother is
From my forehead bursts a sword of light
And from my hand springs the water of the river
All the hearts of the people are my nationality
So exempt me from my passport!