From the dark arenas of violence,
From the shackles of oppression,
From a land reeking of the smell of blood
They flee, bloodied and bruised.
These scraps of humanity alienated from their moorings
Have no possessions other than the sky above
And some inches of land to curl up
That they carry with them as they move
Before them, gapes an abyss of emptiness
Disturbing them like existential absurdity
They differ, speaking disparate tongues
Like those heard in the tower of Babel
But they have a single identity
They are all REFUGEES driven by war
They have a single destination
A promised land of nowhere!
…………………………………………
Trotting over dried up dreams
Leaving love to die, identity to dissolve
They let familiar terrains swim past view
With everything slipping out of eye shot
Again, no looking back!
The unknown stretches far ahead
Behind the hills, muffled cries die down
With soundless echoes in the valley of the dead.
Valsa George (21st century) India
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