I am the fake hope that flies upon the syrian skies.

I am the darkness in every corner of this poem

And every corner, is full of lies.

I am the repressions of the world, The cry of babies,

of men, or women,

I am them and they're all the same.

I am the cry of a cloud which doesn't know

who to blame

for being unable to get down of the sky, down to us

. and the feeling of a chicken

which has never managed to fly.

I am the germ of every weep, every cry,

every suicide attempt in the forgotten area where I live

All the rebellious ideas are me,

this paper and this pen, belong to me.

I am the old beautiful days And the new ones

are you.

I am a crow, whose friends are very few.

I am dead, since the day I was born.

Yet, I glimmer like the faded stars in our galaxy.

And this is me.