Dig a grave on my sky, scattering yellow stars of a land I belong to,
Unlock the doors with the canes of saints who interviewed God.
May be then you will know where my home was.
Let the flowers to grow on the iron gates no one ever opens, 
Along with the rifles hanged by men on branches of the apricot tree,
While the pride in my blood cajole the dreams to dance in a modest dress.
May be then you will know what a home is.
Let my breath,guarding the worshipper of my words within my memory,be chewed by the northern wind with its eyes made of green marble, 
Only to let the pain rise above the red clouds of the mirror a witch lost.
May be then you will understand what it means to let go.
Save the moon who fell into the river, and ask the traitor what his last wish is, while between each cry he will utter his mother's name in vain.
May be then you will know what life really is.
Let the babies to bloom in vaccum, where happiness is betrayed over a rootless smile, and stop asking them who their father is and where they were born.
May be then you will understand what really a homeland is.
Let the one eyed bird to gaze upon the cloud, and offer it a clay wing reminding it the story of Icarus, warning of a sun everyone is afraid of
May be then you will see what fear is
Let me tell you that I don't mind if you mispronounce my name over my coffin,
Or forget what my coffee tasted like.
Look at the notebooks I coughed into,
May be then you will understand why sadness looks like a bullet and feels like a knife.

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