Paris or the soul on fire

From the tobacco holes where the teeth rot, words flee, evaporate and fly high lacking ideas above the heads – a long rope holding on to the eye powder floating above, tightened onto a large narrow dismembered structure. Empty body – words without souls. Words which only substance is the infliction given by the infinite frustrations of the windmills churning out smoke and bile. Words … Continue reading Paris or the soul on fire

Eight Years

As it is eight years since people began protesting in Syria, kids getting locked up for graffiti, a revolution being born – I wanted to write something. Disclaimer for the disjointedness… “We were alone, but we didn’t realise it yet.” Brothers of the Gun Since I started to read The Morning They Came For Us I have understood the feeling inside myself more accurately. Something like … Continue reading Eight Years