My dried old walls, now deafened with screams
Lose their plasters and grimace into cracks
That shape into maps that'll wither and fold
And never speak a word of gardens in bloom
where we would walk and share our songs
In days that have left no traces in RAM
In these, our logbooks of loss.
Trudging without end of sores among thorns
Ours are gestures of refugees in camps
Who are told their rations are gone.
What names or faces or streets now are us?
Miles upon miles of disposable waste
And still not a plant for light from our trash.