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"He was a refugee in his own country, my home too. How can that be?" Refugee poem by Max Burchett

by Max Sebastian Burchett

I met a man, homeless he said.
Home was wherever he stood.
He had no house, no doors, no locks,
As long as there were sidewalks,
That was his bed.
There he laid his head.

Every day I see, wondering what to do.
Then it came to me.
He was a refugee,
In his own country,
My home too.
How can that be?

Him, and many more,
Living a life on the run.
War refugees, fleeing wars in their minds
Or brutal lives left behind.
Strange, but at the same time,
Still prisoners of war.

Prisoners held captive by relentless foes,
Prisoners held in chains,
By enemies who are their best friends
In their veins and in their drinks.
No prisoner exchange possible.
No way out.

Refugees in their own country,
Existing really not living.
How can that be?
It always was, will it always be?
So strange to me.
Does it have to be?

I prefer to dream
Things that never were
And ask why not.
But answers aren’t clear,
More homes perhaps, or not.
Just temporary shelters, perhaps a start.

No one knows it seems
How they can win their wars.
Hope they can!
Hope though is not a word they know.
How can they wrestle free
Of demons who have a hold.

Sad, but I don’t know,
No others have found a way
To rescue these lost souls.
I repeat to myself, try we must,
Defeat the things destroying these refugees,
Long time fleeing a certain death.

Perhaps one uncertain plan
That still must be tried
Is to find some ways
To prevent more from falling in
The hellish pit of sufferin’
That is the life of the homeless refugee.

How I ask, still don’t know
Somehow to save, mental help possibly.
Guidance on life’s paths
Break the chain of brutal family life.
Save more going the way
Of the homeless refugee.


Photography by Wolfgang Eckert
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