POETRY

I do not conform – I do not bend.

I am the infidel,

the apostate,

the scum of this earth.

The brothers take pride in kicking me,

in punching my face.

They enjoy denying my pain.

Dragging my bound hands,

smashing my blinded head.

There is only darkness here,

where the feces of those jailed before me, rots;

where I sleep – standing up.

The pious jail masters rape,

with their batons and their clubs.

Lest their body is sullied,

with my blood, with my shame.

Islam is offering love and care?

From jail to jail?

I can’t see their faces through the veil,

but they are serving pain, in all flavors and smells.