Stuck

You can't hate your country.

You think you do,
but then you hear an old song
that smells like jasmines, you
watch white pigeons
marathon to the far roofs
of the empty buildings, then
marathon back to your balcony
to carry more grains
for their youngsters, and you
change your mind.

Your school might had been
all colored in black and white, your
books might had missed a few
pages. But you had friends there.
You ran there, you laughed
there, the walls still carry
your love letters, you had a favorite
teacher, she believed
in you when you were only
a third grader.

You might had thought
about leaving more times than you
could count. And you will,
one day. But the minute
the plane takes off, you'll feel
like you lost a part of
your identity. No
matter how shining the west
seems to you, you'll
miss the darkest of slums
in your third-world town.

You'll miss the one bedroom
apartment that was once choking
you. You'll miss the streets
where neighborhood boys
ferociously plan a football
game with twenty three
players, every evening.
You'll miss yourself there,
fighting for a living.

And with time, you'll forgive
your country for all those times
it broke you, and let you down.
For all those sad memories
it filled your heart with.
You'll always talk about your country,
watch news about your country.
You'll always think about
your country, because
you can't hate your country.

You think you do,
but then you remember
that this small dot
on the world map that millions of
people never even heard about,
is your first home, and you
change your mind.