the cry from that groaning belly
wrinkled with hunger may end,
but the tears collected with
the basket of hope will not be
contained in the faith of that
roofless man open to the
sky of vulnerability.
these men on a political agenda
of restoring ‘home’ unto you
that we spite ourselves for,
still shake hands behind
our eyes—and in our faces—
too lazy to see that home has
been razed by these vain men.
this homelessness may end and
that lone woman engaging in petty
trading, whose bambooed kiosk finds
her at nightfall with her young offspring
making shelter beneath the shadow
of the moonlight.
that grown-looking girl who’s
only 13yo, a run-away Love who
fled her forced marriage in search
of a home in a lie—finding life’s
meaning in the red light district.
this Land is in another man’s hand
abducted by strangers with bombs
and guns. we are all homeless
roaming on desolate Land with
no home to retire to when the
owl hoots, perching on the