Sheets of paper –
old news to me.
Bedded down on a cardboard carpet
in a storm, but plenty warm; arms wrapped in rags.
Nappy hair – pillow for naps here or there.
Stomach settled with brunch scrounged:
a fat rat’s garbage, a mendicant’s nourishment.
Objects digesting objects rejected . .
but (if they pay attention at all) we’re sold as menaces, worthless?
I rest contented. Rather than scraps
between two, three or more, I prefer that which feeds
a living scrapbook, helping others remember the horrors of terrors.
Cozy in my nook, developing graphs, seeking wisdom, still,
to understand why national objectives are so rarely objective
and primarily promote national suicide.
Once developed homes in another land,
one engulfed in a civil dispute over boundaries, languages, flag colors.
Although neutral, grey, we were pictured as residing, hiding
on the black side of the fray by allies, alien interventionists.
Meddlers for peace, publishing tarnishings,
launching daily and weekly bombings – how to prevent
the Force for Justice’s accident?
The Blood of Abraham in one body, on one course, spilt; split.
Alive: One survivor of five, left to stumble over the mystic
mish-mashed mouthed word jumble: dismembering bodies of families
for national unity is a part in promoting international civil stability.
I remember nothing but being dispossessed of homestead memories.
Headed from a shack, reduced to matchsticks, burning rubble,
I crossed the ocean, kissed the shore as an immigrant,
expected to be welcomed with arms bearing materials to help me
rebuild my splintered dreams. My cheers were allayed when I came
to know the scraps of my Allies’ liberating land:
“Pull away from the domestics
so, elsewhere, we may give a hand.”