It is the water that drowns and also kills the thirst, so is NASMAR
I arrived by boat still with the sand in the pockets of the God I left behind. I am sorry for those who after thirty years still give the coast for the same mistakes and promises. The skin is defined, not with numbers but with butterflies that can not fly. These are sores, scars that will never heal. Time does not heal everything. The sores are braided in our soul like hair in the wind of a child. The wounds are black, like crude. But the soul is white! The pain may be deep but we have reached the shore without falling into the deep ocean. Foreigners? Me too. And always will be. Illegal? So was I.
After the boat, from land to land, I search for what I left behind: the Other in me.
Probably a search for all of us.