Refugee
· One min read
Weeping was my lot.
Half asleep, two little sparrows left their own land
‘refugee’
I kiss their bodies,
the colour of wheat in summer,
they complain into the watering.
It was my lot to be the cloud!
Day eleven. A blackout poem drawn from Batool Abu Akleen’s 48kg — a book of fabulous, dark poems that it feels like sacrilege to alter.