To offer myself as servant to the Lord
of bureaucrats I spring to sacred task:
dismantle the vests and boats of refugees.
For them the word home must be home enough.
My nation rests its feet on little graves;
our kings will not say Syria. Will not say
A boy lies dead on the beach. The foam hardens
around him. His father cannot find him.
His uncle has sunk like a stone. His sister
wanders the wilderness. No, she hasn’t
seen her brother. She lives on fire alone;
her spirit is yet slain. Thus I call
a crusade against my enemy—I
would like to unclothe her of her suffering.