19

From these pixeled graveyards,

You call me out.

I remind you I am expected to speak,

To share a eulogy in memory of my home,

My city,

My people.

Girls cropped into basements.

Boys dropped from rooftops.

Those who stayed,

And those who endlessly roam.

But your eyes are dismissive.

You misquote Luke:

Let these waves bury their own foam.

It all seems so wrong,

But I come along.

You carry me to Paillard,

Gliding across a Parisian moon.

You order blinis with red caviar.

Drinks arrive.

For me a tulip,

And for you, a balloon.

And I can tell you are now smiling,

Behind the clouds of your cigar.

In your eyes Damascus is everywhere,

A Grand Mosque in Porthcurno.

A Christ tower in Troon.

And it all seems so wrong,

But I come along.

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Copyright 2019