This poem of mine is found in the book –

Poets worldwide

They wander map-less
A group of Syrian Christians
Marching, plodding, waddling
Past frontiers laid by two tired pupils
A life that was deracinated and given heel power
As they walk until the talus
Bone aches and the knee joints
Start to quake in subtle tremors
When they stop for the night
Somewhere in Galliforme country
Bridging two continents.

They are only mules of their life-belongings
Firmly wrapped and placed
In the profound depths of a locked fibrous vault
And unlocked day-after-day
Around a camp fire
Over some watered lentils they call soup
And in this dire horizon
What else but anecdotes of a lost home
Replenish an open heart with die-hard hope
And hope, just like gold
When buried deep inside
A formidable chest
Is a rare treasure.



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