Fleeing war they carry it inside them.
With eyes like bombed out rooms
they’ve stared at roads like river beds of rubble.
In hunger without hope, they’ve waited, hearing
thunder in the sky. Stunned with dust
they’ve stood like ghosts in the silence after bombs..
Now riding on their fathers’ shoulders,
leaving their living friends, their dead, their homes,
they take them over crossings into nowhere
through fields, up railway lines, down lanes of flowering