APROPOS THE REFUGEES

There's nothing left here for death to claim; even hunger 

has abandoned the swollen bellies of the wandering children:

eyes sunkened deep into desiccated cranial caverns.

In this fenced graveyard of the living dead, 

flies soar to and fro---depositing maggots

in the festering wounds of fleeing life:

their ghost awaiting their liberation.

In this God forsaken place, time---

like limp breast---lingers on:

the hourglass of life slowly emptying its self.

Here, in this hell on earth,

there is nor refuge for the refugee.