Posted by: Peadar Ban | February 17, 2011

But, How Long…

Drawn out at last,
Scattered from our pots and hovels
At least some kind of home;
Harried, rescued, angry, frightened
Running away east toward mystery
Old men herding us along
Following an old myth
Mouths filled with dust
Across the miles we march,

But how long must we with burning feet
and hearts on fire walk
across the sand under eagle’s eyes
and hear at night the distant roar
of lions, the hyena’s howling
the buzzard’s cynical chatter?


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