Diaspora Poem by May Witwit

Diaspora!
Does the word give the creeps?
Is it a sickness? Is it a plague?
No. It is our status for keeps.
What can you do when zombies gnaw?
And you are stranded all alone?
With a blow of fate banging your gate
Screaming; all or none
Warm hugs are useful, they say
But who are we to hug?
Extinguished lanterns? Icy Mountains?
Or the ones who want to hog?
All you can do is claw with your hand
A route with a dead end
Diaspora is the word
Just sit and watch
there seems to be no end
March 2011