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#dispossessed
Where do people go When they are dispossessed? When the home they know Is no longer seen as theirs, When their beds are tossed out, And those boxes beneath the stairs Regarded as trash by the soulless **** Whose only motive is greed? I have seen images of them in a group, Walking down a road to nowhere, Or out on desert sand, wandering. Where can they go and not be harassed By owners with no sympathy? What boat will carry them to another shore Where they are met with friendship And not seen as enemies? How strange and terrible to see them, All walking in the same way, Heads down and shoulders bent, Many carrying a child Or remnants of a home enfolded. When they reach borders, They are stopped and questioned, Crowded, as are sheep in a pen. So many are turned away And some, desperate they become, Board small boats with promises To take them to freedom, Only to founder and sink, So that the sea becomes Their last, dark home. Others consider themselves lucky To find a tent or metal van Which they must take away From those with property, And keep moving, herded Like those same sheep, Yet now almost wild, Huddling together with strangers Near a fire in vast and empty lands That play slow and vivid sunsets To soothe the rootless host? They tell each other stories Of their home or hard journeys, Give counsel to evade the dogs That prey on those who wander. And on those nights in endless lands, And a dome not veiled by earthly light, But dazzling the wanderers With millions of shimmering stars, That sends dreams of others gone astray And they lament their fate as their own, As unknown brothers and sisters, Who, bewildered, weep for them as well.
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Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 12:13 PM UTC
Where Do People Go?
Where do people go When they are dispossessed? When the home they know Is no longer seen as theirs, When their beds are tossed out, And those boxes beneath the stairs Regarded as trash by the soulless **** Whose only motive is greed? I have seen images of them in a group, Walking down a road to nowhere, Or out on desert sand, wandering. Where can they go and not be harassed By owners with no sympathy? What boat will carry them to another shore Where they are met with friendship And not seen as enemies? How strange and terrible to see them, All walking in the same way, Heads down and shoulders bent, Many carrying a child Or remnants of a home enfolded. When they reach borders, They are stopped and questioned, Crowded, as are sheep in a pen. So many are turned away And some, desperate they become, Board small boats with promises To take them to freedom, Only to founder and sink, So that the sea becomes Their last, dark home. Others consider themselves lucky To find a tent or metal van Which they must take away From those with property, And keep moving, herded Like those same sheep, Yet now almost wild, Huddling together with strangers Near a fire in vast and empty lands That play slow and vivid sunsets To soothe the rootless host? They tell each other stories Of their home or hard journeys, Give counsel to evade the dogs That prey on those who wander. And on those nights in endless lands, And a dome not veiled by earthly light, But dazzling the wanderers With millions of shimmering stars, That sends dreams of others gone astray And they lament their fate as their own, As unknown brothers and sisters, Who, bewildered, weep for them as well.
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Sat at the station, With nowhere to go Trains Arrive to depart And Bustling commuters Phones attached Rush on by Sat at the station Nowhere to go Fear etched in the lines Of a Face lost in time Eyes seeing, Their spark gone Empty costa cup Gripped by a hand Nails black, skin blistered Newspaper, a forgotten date Lies next to Cracked leather boots Soaked then scorched Too many times Sat at the station With nowhere to go
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May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Sat at the station With nowhere to go