See this isn’t a poem,
I wager you that,
See this isn’t a poem,
The rhythm it lacks,

There isn’t a home,
For my head to collapse,
There isn’t a home,
So little in fact,

The sounds of their Guns,
The sounds of their Tanks,
The sounds of the young,
The sounds of the camp,

The sounds of our stomach near
Mid-Afternoon,
The sounds of despair, bitter and
Blue,
We hold on to hope,
Our Bowl and our Spoon