They would feel it, every new moment-
the echoes of who they use to be
and what was once theirs-
now dirty sheets caught in a dark tree.
Everyday, the black river rolls by in blue remembrance
and lilies float and drown in the burning stream.
Here, the air hurts in the light of a browning sun
and the stars are hidden in the halogen night.
In the long black walk from house to road to church
roses will fall, die, pierce their bare feet, even before
the sooty Jesus suspended on the muddy base.
The pain of knowing there was once a home-
land kills them little by little every day.
There was once a greening summer
where rain smelled of honey and pomegranates
where apples tasted true and sweeter
and not the dull bitter of a metallic earth.
But they know that their razed homeland
cannot be reseeded or harvested.
The murderers have destroyed everything,
even every bit of their history.
They must live in the history of here, must
exist suspended between reality and sleep,
the nostalgia of closing their eyes
and trying to reach back home,
through the biter herbs of knowing
they didn’t die, just survived.
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