The big man came, he had a thick caterpillar like moustache, 

windy eyes. 

Man with a blue hat asked him about his passport, 

the inked gateway to differences. 

He didn’t have one, 

he only knew slow melodies as rainbow gates…

He was taken to the custody…his liberation and poetic trance were caged. 

‘Only after leaving everything but insanity you become an artist’…his only truth in this world of manipulations. 

He was asked about his country…

so he wanted a glass of water and said, ‘this is my country’; pointing at that glass molecule. 

He read them some poetries as his legal alibis…

He was one lone lion longing lucidity from people’s war for existence. 

So many evenings of forgotten headaches and too many of legs; he had seen before that, 

and preferred to be an escapist to become sailing eagles. 

I don’t blame the hat men, 

they had never seen unkempt hair in shadows of audacity. 

They didn’t know he could bring the howls of northern lights even after being inside metallic cubicals.