One
Those who were not connected to the land
Were the very ones who flew away with it.

Two
On that midsummer afternoon,
The volcano of the sky had indeed erupted.
It was the armor of sweat
That kept me walking toward the destination.

Three
On the scaffolding of age,
I kept hanging every moment of life—
Never realizing
How deeply the swamp of the land pulled down my feet.

Four
In the noisy marketplace of discourses,
My identity searches
For some untouched island.

Five
What kind of updated edition of time is this—
Where torn and wounded history
And ideals burning on pyres
Are the same ones for which so many Jesuses and Socrates died.

Six
Capital, riding the chariot of globalization,
The flag of the market,
Arrows of advertisement—
And the target: the dreams of the common man.

Seven
The world’s good man,
While fighting for bread,
Became the worst of all.

Eight
I have been searching
For that fire
Which can reduce the other to ashes.

Nine
In the terrifying shadows of the dark night,
On the poles of hope,
An old man kept hanging
Posters of discontent.