In this strange land where I have no place, I found a bench on a park: my solace, my spot, my whereabouts and my piece of green. Here nothing touches.
Armed Soldiers swarm the garden
Scorching everything in its path
Our home infested
Bodies crawling, wailing
Wretched hatchlings of a better time
A red tide covers the floor
The neighbours trembling
No more than cockroaches
Scrambled in crevices
Torn between salvation and succour
Nobody breathed for an eternity and a half
Bedevilled the country
Only fear and despair
Hovering in the sky
Where is she? In the small airless cupboard-sized room, or beneath the sofa burning candles to expel the wandering ghosts-always ready to steal her voice, perhaps on the bed petrified next to her mother's corpse, on the stairs dirty as mud, on the chair defying her grandmother, drinking ketchup directly from the bottle, showing her ass in front of the cracked mirror, spitting on the face reflected. Where is she?