The refugees in their desert camps  
are sleeping.

The nomads have put out the little fire 
they sit around.

Even the birds in the dark trees 
have folded their wings over their walnut faces  

and do not fear 
the vultures that prey on flesh.

The world is used up 
for another day of existing, scrounging, finding scraps of joy

and cloth, and gone to bed. 
The soccer ball rests on the ground far from the net.

The crippled child lies in a bed of rags. Flies walk across 
her face. Perhaps in the dark, she is running

after the ball with the others, perhaps she is being
scooped up in an hysterical dance.

Not one drop of rain has fallen. Not one gust of wind 
has erupted. Today I am free of pain.