My heart lives in the place of the exiled. The banished land, barren with burden, barren with anger, barren of hope. My heart weeps like them, the homeless, for a place to live. This place where maggots turn over the flesh of the dead is no longer their own. Composting the earth- they prepare for the return of the baker, the farmer, the mother, the father; the return of the exiled to their homes. Homes in this barren land that are not here, not there, where the sun shines ammonia bright and shadowless. I am from the place of the exiled, lost in this circus, this laughter of work, of clowns, of someone else’s life. Like them my heart bleeds, it bleeds as loud, as fast; I am from the land of the exiled, the land of nomads, roamers that return again and again, to that place that was stolen. Their hearts dry-roasted on the spits of their enemies. Here I am lost. Here I am raging, in there, with them, in this fireball of the sun and the cold dark heart of the enemies home, lost, lost, lost. Here I am burnished into the dry desert of stone, of sand, of heat. Here I am lost, lost, lost!
Peace will not come until they are home. The heart will not settle until they are returned. The maggots will not rest until the dead stop roaming, satisfied and at peace, home in their own land, home in their own hearts, home in their own confiscated beds. The exiled will not rest!
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Cole Keister on Unsplash
#Prose #Poetry #Exile #Disenfranchised
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