Humiliation makes you tough,

but with ages. 

I don’t remember those times, it’s better that way…

those times of prolific dirt and freedom to fly. 

If you think the hummingbird is all winged and unabashedly twittering,

then you don’t know his nights, his nights of falling skies. 

The trance was broken for me too, 

with the shimmering boots of those men…

shouting and making everyone aware of the helplessness, 

the shame of a broken pack of wolves. 

Manhandled and manipulated with every ounce of blood in their steel body, 

twilight came, I was seeing hands and breathtaking fists inside that fading circle at horizon. 

Pleading happened, heated words happened…blue swearings to kill everyone happened, 

and slowly but surely I killed all the fairy tales, all the poetic postures of a shivering tweleve years old. 

I was never needed to be understood after that, I was never needed to be patted after that, 

all came as a rushing flow of hollow cloud. 

I still see those men when I pour whiskey in my body, 

I still crumble seeing their red eyes,

but now the wounded animal inside me howl, 

‘ Come motherfuckers I am all armoured now, come and have a honest go at each other.’ 

But they never come… 

Shameless killings never happen,

I still sleep with the memories of my old wolves…distant wolves, 

and with a hope that they would forget their miserable child who flourished in silence.

…………………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Google.