Something died inside
During those long years
Of humanitarian exile
Taking their toll, heavy
Now for pulse checking
A reckoning
Silently, breathing in
Then out, a vital exhaling
And quiet exclaiming
I’m alive, alive
Still, alive
These heartbeats deceive
Motions mimic me, mon ami
Not fully here in the present
This death a solitary thing
Yet the remains linger
The thud-thudding of rotors
Remind me of Goma’s flight paths
The clattering above and in my head
Insomnia has returned with me
Conflict’s clamour clings
Displaced others have come to London
Fleeing war in search of a better life
In our post-humanitarian imaginings
Lies a future dreaming, screaming
Hoping for a different reality
In the bustle of births and busyness
All this striving to survive, maybe thrive
It’s the fight that dominates after the flight
Not the happy breathing and contented sighing
But memories of homes that once we loved
London’s tenements cower by the Thames
Inshallahs mixed with desperate amens
Making amends for the parts left behind
No missiles scud along the clouds anymore
Just a streaky light in a lamenting sky
Hopeful yesterdays die like autumn turning
Everything tastes out of place now, remember
The skinny goat we shared with kin and kith-folk
In the dirt, better than a greasy feast alone
What good is a homeless heart?
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