Friday, September 25, 2015

refugees


but for the tears
a small boy may shed
his childhood has been torn from him
discarded on the tracks
a bloodied rag left behind
another past drying up
blowing across the oiled ties

scorpions dance over the cooling grey stones
he watches as if they are toys
he can not have
his mother’s dark eyes hold
the idea of home
to light the path ahead
through the dark cruel shadows

even as the razor wire slices deep
as terror tempers her hope
she does not let go of his hand


Barry DeCarli
September 25, 2015
On Hammond Pond
©2015 Barry DeCarli

Draft #2


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