How Will I Ever Get Out Of This Labyrinth?
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Poetry is, first and foremost, a form of protest. Poetry protests against humanity's monstrous indifference to itself. Poetry protests as the light of love fades with the rising sun. Poetry protests for memories that ought not be forgot, yet were scarcely ever known to the world. Wherever there is confusion, contradiction, uncertainty - there poetry is born. It springs, uncontained, from cold bedsheets, from heavy tombstones lined up in hundreds and thousands, from the cracks that tear the skies and ground of ramshackle camps. It is found on the tongue, on papers, on screens, in minds, written...
Poetry is, first and foremost, a form of protest. Poetry protests against humanity's monstrous indifference to itself. Poetry protests as the light of love fades with the rising sun. Poetry protests for memories that ought not be forgot, yet were scarcely ever known to the world. Wherever there is confusion, contradiction, uncertainty - there poetry is born. It springs, uncontained, from cold bedsheets, from heavy tombstones lined up in hundreds and thousands, from the cracks that tear the skies and ground of ramshackle camps. It is found on the tongue, on papers, on screens, in minds, written on hearts. Poetry, when exposed to the world, becomes a call for resistance. No longer can it tolerate the bounds of quiet displeasure. No more will it sit down and talk - now, perching defiant on a line, it shouts and is heard. What follows is a year of contradictions, of uncertainties, of poetic protest, of questions: How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?
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