I can’t imagine what it’s like to flee my home as a refugee. Just a few sketched words:
brushes against the canvas tent
A small quavering
that barely replaces the once
now crushed in bones under rubble
Joy. It breaks and cracks,
Five hundred miles in the past.
The wandering is one thing
But the wondering is hell.
There’s a Nowhere in the heart.
And the soul is a worn stone, ground
as sand shifts
brushing the quavering
refugees that barely can place
buried under waiting.
Peace. It looks away.
And hope grows in withered form here…