Refugee

There is a graveyard inbetween my ribs,
tearing open the flesh of my soul.
Bombings.
There are strangely dressed visitors, standing row
to plant flowers in the cracks of my skin,
as if to say “heal faster, forget”.
Bombings.
There are hands I can no longer hold,
too much weight upon my chest,
the tombs keep filling, making me breathe heavily.
Bombings.
Leaving.
There are eyes on this new land, fixed upon my skin,
maybe they have seen the dead bodies floating within me,
maybe they have seen the blood of..
Bombings.
I cannot dream anymore. I can only hear..
Bombings.
Bombings.
And a child’s last cry before..
Bombing.

Jehona Thaqi© picture taken from unkown. If you know the photographer please let me know in the comment section.