Untitled

I am an old man.
The years have lined my face,
the war still haunts my days, infests my nights.
I hear the screaming children,
their ribs, jutting out.
I smell death on the air and on the breath of my brothers.
"Dig your grave! Dig your grave!"
But no strength remains to dig.

What is this word that hangs on lips?
Liberation.
I am past the point of hope so
I wait.

A new home.
A shoebox and clothing on my back,
the only remnants of my country.
Your tongue is foreign as mine is to you.
My wife still cries in her sleep,
often waking the baby.
I work.
Soot covers my hands--I am thankful there is still flesh
to be dirty.
I save.
Never again will I live without;
my little ones will be more than their father.
Fear will not fill their dreams.

And now I die, a death that steals my dignity.
My strong hands shake.
I am a child again,
my son dresses me, shaves me.
Eight-four years on an old man's face,
erased,
as God takes
my hand.