#borders - Hello Poetry

We love black. Black jackets in winter evenings, black cars shining under rain, black caps, black shoes, and the night yes, we write poems about the night. We call darkness beautiful as long as it is not living inside a human skin. It is strange. So strange. We cross oceans searching for “culture.” We walk through markets with cameras in our hands, smiling beside old women in Africa, children in dusty Asian streets, men lowering their foreheads to the ground in distant mosques. We call it diversity. We write captions about humanity and place sunsets behind every photograph. But when those same people come to us with tired eyes and empty hands, with hunger instead of gifts, with sorrow instead of holidays, they suddenly become a problem. It is strange. So strange. At universities we study their religions. We earn degrees, write long articles about tolerance and peace. We quote their philosophers as if their words were beautiful objects in museums. But outside the lecture halls we want walls. Closed borders. Silent mouths. It is strange. So strange. We say they are violent while our planes are already flying above their skies. Our bombs arrive faster than our handshakes. When powerful nations **** it is called defense. When weak people answer back, it is called terrorism. It is strange. So strange. We speak loudly about freedom of speech as long as the voices are ours. We call mockery democracy and their wounds extremism. Our freedom becomes sacred. Their pain becomes dangerous. It is strange. So strange. And maybe all of this began long before us. In ships crossing oceans to conquer the world. In flags planted into foreign soil. In maps drawn by hands that never asked the people already living there. Now the children of those lands stand at Europe’s borders asking only to survive. And the world becomes afraid of its own footprints. It is strange. So strange. We want to be seen, yet we look away from others. We want respect, yet struggle to give the same respect back. We say all human beings are equal, but some people’s names, languages, and skin must always explain themselves a little more. No. It is not the world that is strange. It is us. We are strange. We are so strange.

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May 19

May 19, 2026 at 4:00 PM UTC

Muhammad_Sami_Sadiq

The World Is Not Strange, We Are!

We love black. Black jackets in winter evenings, black cars shining under rain, black caps, black shoes, and the night yes, we write poems about the night. We call darkness beautiful as long as it is not living inside a human skin. It is strange. So strange. We cross oceans searching for “culture.” We walk through markets with cameras in our hands, smiling beside old women in Africa, children in dusty Asian streets, men lowering their foreheads to the ground in distant mosques. We call it diversity. We write captions about humanity and place sunsets behind every photograph. But when those same people come to us with tired eyes and empty hands, with hunger instead of gifts, with sorrow instead of holidays, they suddenly become a problem. It is strange. So strange. At universities we study their religions. We earn degrees, write long articles about tolerance and peace. We quote their philosophers as if their words were beautiful objects in museums. But outside the lecture halls we want walls. Closed borders. Silent mouths. It is strange. So strange. We say they are violent while our planes are already flying above their skies. Our bombs arrive faster than our handshakes. When powerful nations **** it is called defense. When weak people answer back, it is called terrorism. It is strange. So strange. We speak loudly about freedom of speech as long as the voices are ours. We call mockery democracy and their wounds extremism. Our freedom becomes sacred. Their pain becomes dangerous. It is strange. So strange. And maybe all of this began long before us. In ships crossing oceans to conquer the world. In flags planted into foreign soil. In maps drawn by hands that never asked the people already living there. Now the children of those lands stand at Europe’s borders asking only to survive. And the world becomes afraid of its own footprints. It is strange. So strange. We want to be seen, yet we look away from others. We want respect, yet struggle to give the same respect back. We say all human beings are equal, but some people’s names, languages, and skin must always explain themselves a little more. No. It is not the world that is strange. It is us. We are strange. We are so strange.