The border crossing

movements across countries


 

A whisper storms though the camp –

Tonight. A bloodless moon,

The rain has stopped.

We pack.

Adam and I roped,

Ehva wrapped,

We tread, soft earth clutching,

Up the hill. North. Past the Star.

Ahead, behind murmurs, children hushed.

Silence. Rustle of leaf on leaf.

The moon drips its severed light

Threads the way. To somewhere else.

A house. People waiting.

Unbroken windows.

Sleeping late into the morning.

 

A strobe of lights. 

The night withdraws.

We’re opened. Penned.

 

There is a moment life ceases, becomes nothing,

No longer of this Earth, this place of dust and stone

We’re ghosts, displaced, no spaces, bodies to call home,

Just whispers of a dying breath silent fading.

 

They search.

Nothing is private.

Leave us with nothing.

Push us back. We are nots.

 

We return, bags of blood and bone,

The dream of crossing closed, postponed.

 

© PilgermannBM 2021
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critique and comments welcome.
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Franciman

Hi there,
Your verse becomes more uncomfortable with each re-read. Initially it seems to be narrative with spikes, but soon changes to barbed spikes with a narrative. Hope that makes sense? So well written and intuitive too.
cheers,
Jim

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