The Tent of Rags. Poetry

The tent of rags is a journey taken barefoot, written with the same hands that held my sorrow and longed for belated embraces. These are fragments of my skin, those that adorned my path to exile, a journey that began after fleeing barbarity towards an expectation of freedom and well-being.
My poems are distant echoes of a hard-fought war; they are translucent fear and intrauterine rage. They are also hopes torn apart by laughter, and a trembling surrender to limbo. They are moments of solitude, of cold streets, of borders and cages, but also of imaginary flights, of stars, of seagulls, and of a heart that refused to give up.
The hope that there is nothing more after hitting rock bottom, but yes, there is.
After hitting rock bottom is your essence, the invisible force that destroys the world and rebuilds it in a second of light.
Living on the street, living off the street, being the street itself, is an experience that strengthens the weak and shatters the ego of the giant. Both, even.