rickety boats, rocky paths
tired bodies
lost feet, looking
for homes
and a hearty meal...
who are 'they'
where do 'they' come from
wither do 'they' wander
where will 'they' go
bruised.
hungry.
HURT.
with half a ray
of hope
they surrender
and flow
like a river,
until
they find,
the ocean
'who are they
wither do they wander, do you ask? '
'Refugee, refugee, refugee, that's what they're called.'
'Freedom, freedom, freedom, that's what they long for.'
Auden knew. Eliot knew.
The Dalai Lama knew.
And now,
we all
know.
But then, my friend,
we are a tad too busy
to pay attention
'Refugee? ? ? Perhaps I've heard that word before', he said.
'What's that? ', she said.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem