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But you don't understand:

I wear pink because

messy is my soul

and my lips full of poems.

Am I a poet again?

From Rome with love

From Rome's National Gallery of Modern Art

Pictures by @princess-kaldor

From "Witness" by Jamel Brinkley

in a glass box

filled with storms

and fire and cries.

My people cannot

raise their heads

and watch the sky

any longer,

but the sky belongs

to the whole humanity.

Aren’t we humans anymore?

Prayers sang in one thousand languages,

white veils around grey remains

of a red sea.

We demolish the walls inside our hearts

and hold our hands,

those who yield power

don’t know sisters’ words

are more powerful than decrees.

Sisters of the world will dance

under this heinous tempest,

holding half of the sky

‘till tears will make grass grows.

My fear is this one,

that my pen has forgotten,

the heat of my hand,

the fury of a rage never getting old.

I spend my time defining the impossible

calculating lives,

listening to music,

fantasising ten-year walks

in cities I’ve never visited,

reading what I’d have wanted writing myself

and I know I will.

Don’t expect my logarithms

are always brilliant,

complex, exact

rhymes get away from me

and lines blossom as prose.

But freedom is also boredom,

is a lonely dance,

is rage, anxiety, stress.

Freedom is that song

which makes me utter: «I exist!».

We’re screaming colours,

but the earth is not listening,

seas are playing loud songs

fo the fallen.

A journey through this

crystalline blue

which can be both

spelled as dream or

as nightmare,

this is not a rhythm,

this is a gulf

in an echo.

This is not a poem,

this is my voice,

people’s voice.

You’re watching

but you don’t see,

you’re hearing

but you’re not listening.

You admire these new colours,

fires and rains,

the sun lays

on the other side of the world.

This dawn is spelled as hope,

like the name of the woman

who will save the poets from the wars.

These are the tales we tell

our daughters and sons.

They rose to be the future things,

the things we supposed to cry for,

but we made them a sweet fantasy.

These are the new colours of the Earth,

but no one says they’re nice.