Letters from the voiceless

And my brothers sharpened their hands
from the first day they learned to write letters
they scribbled words that even the doves danced
in tune to it
those letters did not make it to the door
but the floor

I wonder if this passport recognize the thumb print
in which they pay for every trip to and fro?
when does the ink make it to your paper?
to your eyes , to your brain and to your tongue?

brothers today we are truly strangers
from our words to our deeds
we learn from the curses of the streets
let this leader go , his words mean nothing

nothing to the dead and will be
give time to say the shahadat
before sending your soul
away from land and ocean floors