The Refugees

In the shabby train no seat is vacant.

The child in the ripped

Sprawls undisturbed in the

Of the smashed compartment.

Is their calm extravagant?

They had faces and lives like you.

What was it they

That they were willing to trade for this?

The dried blood sparkles along the

Of the child who yesterday possessedA country welcomer than this.

Did he?

All night into the

The train moves silently.

The faces are vacant.

Have none of them found the cost extravagant?

How could they?

They gave what they possessed.

Here all the purses are vacant.

And what else could satisfy the

Tears and wish of the child but this?

Impose its canceling terrible

On the days and faces and lives they waste?

What else are their lives but a journey to the

Satisfaction of death?

And the

They wear tonight through their

Is death's rehearsal.

Is it really

To read in their faces:

What is there we

That we were unwilling to trade for this?