آزادی

“From the hanging roofs of prisons, the machine of human oppression screams for unfinished freedom.” آتش

The streets were blood in the throat of my history, a flame reaching towards fire.

I see nothing but pain in my gasoline, a butterfly is stuck in my sad heart.

He looked at the people with his cross and remained silent. ی

In thoughts of bread, bed, and embrace, there is blood, and you are the one.

The cup they drink with pieces of my liver on a skewer. می‌ریزد

Vague memories of happiness and a lump in the throat that falls down.

I write of love and freedom with scratched nails. ودی

“From recklessness”