Pages of home 2

I reside in the moon's sunlight, the cold warmth of this country's enigma tickling my cracked harsh nivea scented skin. Playback of african stories rewind in the tape of my nationality as I transform black beauty nights into museums of thoughts. Peaceful to be here, my heart is a chaotic rythm with the balance of this interrupted yellow taxi traffic. I "feel" at home; my response touched by sensations magnified - incorporated as one into my destiny. Becoming as one in an open world of ghostly dreams, my soul awakens to the haunted nature of a defeated nation. The smells of dinner starve through the night, complicated doors lock down with a fight, hiding under rubbles of the day waiting for a new light. Metals of corruption rattle through injuries of desert space, blood sheds invisibly for an accident of freedom, and I listen to the magically conjured sudan staring in a mirror at a broken kingdom.