The Babies in the Refugee Camp

The war said to the children,

by giving the crayons of wounds,

“Now you can draw.”

They drew a long red line,

cutting through the middle of the page of nothingness.

Then war asked,

“What is this?”

“This is our identity card.”

One of them said,

standing on his one remaining leg.

The refugee camp was a school

in an unknown locality.

Children’s crying was on the rooftop.

The stretching hunger towards the food boxes was its veranda.

Don’t ask the name, country, or home,

because those concepts are untied

at the time of entering the school.

The body parts,

which may be lost at any moment,

are not carried along.

No one is left

in the hide-and-seek of break time.

We always walk

with a piece of land

in which we are going to be buried.

That land is our toy.

We will be playing with it

on that day

when the endless discussion

about power and boundaries is going on.