They come with the spring
They come with summer
They come infested with flies and pock marks
They are despised
Their baggage is children, women
The men have no place.
They want new territories.
They are culpable
They could be anything, anyone.
But most important of all
they are refugees, seekers of change
as the wind billows
and the storm screams
They are whip lashed by wind
and bathed with waters,
roaring, yawning seas.
They are refugees.
Come, me, you
see their plight
and write stories. Not fiction.
But fact, encrypted in graves.