Poem: Refugees

 

Refugees

 

in the lost gardens,

petals fluttered to weave rosaries.

no one dared gaze on the fretful stars,

those pigments of bone.

 

they trekked

among bricks that lacked a hearth,

and boiled the bark of broken trees to chew.

chokeberry dyed their tongues.

 

tired legs slugged it out 

with the misshappen ground,

not so heavy yet as tank treads.

uneasy shoes sidled when they came upon a pit, 

those lucky, tangled corpses

immune to dysentery.

 

no rest, anywhere, for the thousands of eyes 

no longer ripe with tears.  too drained.

why rest unless commanded by a final sun? 

why scavenge for uselss dreams 

under the scythe of the moon?

 

with nothing left but stains

of tears, hope, blood and salt,

all passion lost, gone to dead relatives and homes,

the refugees stumbled upon a fence, 

and beheld a realm of green 

where war had no name.  

 

the well-fed ones on the other side

smiled at the refugees' scarlike mouths. 

they offered a welcome of wealthy words,

one that made less and less sense,

as they fastened more and more locks

on the beautiful gates.

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