Bureaucracy
Light blue was his shirt
Long sleeves, spotted
With blue; far darker glue paint
When spoke one could see
He missed his lateral incisor
Did not care…
He is Kurd and also Syrian.
Paints frames and tapes them
Insulates unaware…
And is paid by hour…
Fair? ? ? Unfair? ? ?
Refugee and in need
Inexpert, labourer
Needs work to feed the mouths!
"Planes bombed…"
He starts; I listen and absorb
Like sponge in water…
"Our place on border…"
Means Turkey's
Neither knows nor dares to
Pinpoint one of them
‘Mean bombers…'
Too simple to know that
His home is Test-target
For Russia, USA…
And others…
"Lost my son…"
He says and my jaw falls.
Good news comes too fast
"He is found…"
Son, twelve, is now in Germany
But takes time to unite
Already more than year…
Bureaucrats! ! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem