Asylum
1.
Lost childhood in transit; a container full of ghosts
and bottles of piss, the cold and the waiting, the torn
pieces of paper with words in Italian, the mantras.
2.
He turned to me with the eyes of a wounded deer.
I cannot go back to the mud and the kerosine nights.
I have a question - What is this Bundesamt?
A motherless child, paradise lost.
poem by Leslie Philibert
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.