Let the Ashes Speak
You, yes, you who train your eyes to be shockproof
see so many unburied dead rotting everywhere.
And those who flee their houses flaming up in fire
to get across bullet-strewn lands, mine-punctuated waters
say, Don’t look here. Art’s fine refinements are elsewhere.
You always get your ears to listen to those who never
and the rain falling on camps’ tattered plastic.
If curious by chance, you ask the refugees, they
say, Don’t ask for answers anymore. Let the ashes speak.
Read more of Sofiul Azam’s poetry.
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