an olive branch and arrows,
a seal pressed deep
like a wound refusing to close.
A woman behind glass
asked me if I loved freedom.
I said yes,
but not the kind
that comes with a barcode.
Freedom here
is a performance:
a hymn sung off-key
by men in suits
who have never been hungry.
They say:
“You can speak.”
But listen long enough
and you hear
what cannot be said.
They let you march,
but on routes they approve.
They let you shout,
until the sirens start.
Freedom here
wears a badge.
It watches from cameras
hidden in the streetlamp’s eye.
I wrote a poem
about a boy shot in daylight.
They said:
“Careful. Be respectful.”
And so I folded my words
like a passport
I was told not to lose.
You can live here
but not settle.
You can stay
but not arrive.
They give you space
but no ground.
You float,
documented,
but not seen.
Still, I dream
of a freedom
not written on forms,
not pledged,
but lived.
