Cry for child and cry for refugee.
A dream of six hundred miles
and of a thousand years.
If I sit friendless in the grey morning
and bleed and speak to machines
will you think a long thought?
If I tread on hills motionless
and censor all meaning
will you eat my hands and spray incense?
Withered and searing
the debris of twenty times
and every act a sin.
Her rage black and inevitable
and her censure a lost mystery.
Come child, come refugee
come drink at my bosom
be it dry, be it poison
and I will turn you to ash
and blow you to the winds.
It is not I who can save you.
Break on your fate
crushed on a hidden road.
The fount of all progeny
and the shock of generations
gripped in agony
like hazy sleeplessness
and death alone.