The last ray of sun before blindness. The last
raindrop before drought. The Libyan desert is
nothing now but the sound of smoke and starvation;
the sound of a child with no hands standing before
a feast spread across a vast
and beautiful table,
a slow exhale when faced with dead parents
in a burning home,
the slow march of refugees who leave their dead
for the sandstorms to bury.
“This is how it is,
these are our customs. If there is
something to eat, we will eat it together.
If there is nothing to eat,
we will have nothing together,”
said the Tunisian to the reporter,
embracing the refugees within
the four walls of his words.
Words that hang like lanterns
in the smoldering dark of this desert.
Words that say more than
this poem ever could.