Across the black hole of my solitude,
the self-indulgent pit where I
lick self-inflicted wounds,
lightly step returning refugees.
They know why they trek through forest,
crossing rivers, day by day, on bruised
and lacerated feet, in rain, on clay,
on sharp-edged stones.
For them there is no other way,
and they are going home…
They have no doubt where they belong,
the dying and the newly-born,
no time to squander on regrets:
they are going home…
The Sudan - 4.06.05
Refugees returning home
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105070200284
Свидетельство о публикации №105070200284
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