Tell me,
where
does the driftwood go
when it is pushed away
by both sea and shore–
as time wears it off
from skin and hope
of arriving at land
where its fellow trees grow?
For the oceans and wars
carry the oars
and longings of men
far from their homes;
to those grasping for aid
the foreign docks force
their folded hands back
to the embrace
of cold firearms.
Tell them,
what home
can they run to
when the ground shakes
with the trembling of knees
and the quiver of pleas–
where children are slaughtered
in silence
no louder than the winds
that will blow
at their footprints
on the fading sand,
as our ignorance
takes the shape of a sift?
How do we tell them
that hunger is not
just in their thin bones–
it is in ample flesh
and corpulent lust
that eats off from people
with sealed lips,
chained necks
and fettered wrists,
incapable of feeding
their very own mouths?
What do we say
aside from the fact
that these people are robbed
of home–
of their belonging
to a place where safety awaits,
to a vessel that follows
in soars and rests;
a self,
a soul–
as they are sold off
like houses and properties
that belong to money
no family affords?
A girl told me
in hushed whispers,
that we have often
grown deaf and mute–
but in a lifestyle
where our five senses
are sometimes
screened from the truth,
there is a constant cry
in our blind hearts
that we must always
answer to.
For beyond our barbed
and malicious actions–
some prey,
some of us butchers–
there is a home
as there is a human
deep inside
of both
when we keep
our doors
open
as beings
in need of help
and love.
So stop the auction;
stop the carnage,
end the indifference.
There is no right
nor wrong time
to start treating people
like they,
and like we,
are people.
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