Morning noon and night even on the demanded day
of rest
the wanderers arrive exhausted and afraid
the soldiers see nothing but pleasure in spitting fear
into their eyes
We sing the glory of this beaten down
place
as if the hero who was prophesized
still rules our paths with care
But only
the most willfully blind can sing those songs
when the invaders claim our heartbeats
as the rhythm with which to dance their control
Count them
each arrival must be captured
in the ledger from which our sustenance
is calculated
So when he stood here
asking for shelter before she fell into
the road covered with shame trembling
to force our gaze away from her swollen
womb
I stopped for just long enough
to exhale my well-adapted mindless trance
and took them to the stable
ii.
We are the inheritors of dust
the cracked dried branches of a tree
that has forgotten how to bear fruit
We
do not sing the promises shouted
so long ago
We are here only to discard
every thought of a bright new dawn
She could be heard everywhere
groaning out something more than struggle
It was not
until the young men
crowded into the door demanding
to see a child
that I heard
how odd my breath was sounding
We went in
the young ones pushing
past me
more hungry than the mules
and oxen in the stable
falling against
each other
staring staring until frozen
with their long- unrequited hunger
They let their eyes feast upon
the child
