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?
Randall Jarrell
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