I saw an old man in Maine,
he was nailing plastic to his house,
wrapping up for winter.
It was cold and time for dinner.
Within my borrowed walls,
I wanted to be, like him, in occupation,
with a house to keep and a family to hold
and someone to go inside to.
Always waiting in the waves, we are
boats that hesitate, till harbors fill
and everyone is gone.
An Anonymous Poem from Iran
5 months ago

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