still, we are free.

i am a threat
to my own oppression
to the exile your privilege puts me in
because my ancestors built resilience into my blood
while yours
just had blood
on their hands
i am not an exception to the rule
i am a mere reflection
of my upbringing
brought up on the bare backs of refugees
who made sure nothing would stop me from having everything
owed to us
every last one of us
boundless and borderless, we are coming
a long time coming, but i promise you
we are coming.

we are turning tables
into red woven carpets with spilt tea leaves
into red and green kites
flying freely
below drones in the sky
but they still fly
because the wind is on our side
because we chose our freedom one day
we decided it was ours
it’s our deepest, darkest secret
much too quiet for tapped phone calls
and when our troubles let us
we drift asleep to bomb blasts,
soft death and lullabies- but still, we are free
we bury our children in foreign lands, with foreign dreams
but still, we are free
and we grieve when we have to
when their tears dry to ashes
but still, we are free.

– m.h.                                                                                                                                               more poetry