There’s a floor called race and a home called blood,

it can be what forms you.

It can be what clothes you, what warms you as it flows through your body,

a rich honey providing brotherhood, relation, family and love -

bonds of pride which cartwheel through your body.

I have a mystery and in my father lies the clues.

I had droplets of speciality, uniqueness, distinction, excitement...

Belonging.

And in my father was the map,

he held the destination

and I marked it with an X,

the treasure – my nationality.

But now he crosses it off.

It is not for me.

And the culture clears,

the rain washes away the sun,

the sun melts the land,

it is not for me.

The food burns, the real Greeks eat.

The sea drowns, the real Greeks swim.

The music mutes, the real Greeks dance.

I don’t belong.

It is not for me.

“The blood is not yours, we have taken your blood.

We have taken the blood you always felt in your body,

the blood which always formed your identity,

the blood which always won your belonging.

We have taken the blood which was your love and caused your love,

We have taken it,

its warmth, its diseases, its faults, its risks, its family, its culture.

We have taken your blood”

There’s a floor called race and a home called blood.

But the ground is slippery for you who wears shoes,

and the light in the window has been put out,

and the door has been locked,

and it is not for me.