Читать книгу Winnower - Aaron Brown - Страница 7

I have been shielded from the suffering

of earth’s most silent heroes:

the aged woman

stooping low to boil her tea,

on a crude black grill underneath a tree;

a man pushing himself through sand

with his gnarled hands,

crippled legs folded in between—

his trail stretches for miles behind;

or the smoldering homes of lives

scattered like some shrapnel—

once released there is no returning.

The smoke rises from the capital

and its citizens mill about with whatever

memories of the old life in hand;

taking their chances past the police checkpoints,

braving the overflowing bridge to another country.

In another country, I sit with a pen.

Somewhere across oceans of water,

oceans of sand where my life began

I had everything to dispose of,

though my people had nothing.

They watched their country

in one day rise up in smoke,

in flames that I could board

a plane to escape, listen to the engine

hum my soul away to where

contemplation is the only means

of return.