Refugee Camp

There is no point in me writing this poem, because
you have already written it yourself,
in your head

or else the papers have written it for you
in their solid black headlines, their grimy stock photos
their facts.

Imagine a face. What colour is it?
Imagine a pair of shoes. A shirt. A dirt path.
Fires. Laughter.
Imagine a helping hand. What colour is it?

Even as you read this, you know that it is written in white ink.
Don’t make the mistake of thinking that makes it neutral.

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