Before my long travel, I pack
my suitcases, stuff them with
some sand from our land,
some scent from my mother’s kitchen and
sounds of birds in the morning.

And in my pockets, I put the four
directions. My hands are the compass.

At the airport, I beg the officer
not to open the suitcases
and, if needed, to touch my clothes
gently. Otherwise,
I would be standing
on a worn-out map.

I would be weightless
in the air.