Poetry Drawer: On The Border by John Grey

Humiliation barely registers in those downcast faces.
I dare you to imagine where they come from,
feel the beatings, suffer the horrendous rape,
then watch the beatings, the rape of others.
When were you ever woken up by soldiers
in the middle of the night, with huts aflame
all around you, and rifles pointed at your heart
while your children huddle behind you?
Where’s the constant movement in your life,
not of choice but forced, clutching a baby
in your arms, ragged possessions strapped to back,
limping down an overgrown jungle trail,
hungry, thirsty and in constant dread?
No red blood on your cheeks, no dark stain on your floors.
You sit back in your pleasant home,
as pleased with yourself as some general in his fiefdom.
You might even go to church come Sunday,
pray to a God suitably neutered for the occasion.

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