Refugee

Little Mira rose beneath an unrelenting sun –
a single face in many who were tired and on the run.

Her little feet were blistered and her lips were cracked and dry –
she longed for food and water from the stores in short supply.

A solid week of walking in a hundred ten degrees
had her wishing for a shower – or at least a subtle breeze.

Though neither wish was granted, Mira had to persevere –
a child of ten devoid of kin left bringing up the rear.

The group had left Damascus on a route that took them south,
to a better life in Jordan – so they’d heard by word of mouth.

A horde of trodden faces from a city turned to dust –
amidst abandoned armor filled with holes and caked with rust.

Mira was an orphan, robbed of everything she had –
she’d lost her older brother, both her mother and her dad.

Her father was a doctor who would tend to either side –
an act that drew suspicion to the point he had to hide.

One night after dinner, men came knocking at their door,
but Mira had been hidden in a space beneath the floor.

Crouching in the darkness, trepidation so profuse –
came pleadings of denial and the sounds of cruel abuse.

She heard a clash of voices, and then a burst of rifle fire,
a pause of deadly silence – then the soldiers would retire.

Once the noise abated, neighbors came to render aid
and a grizzly sight awaited – tribulation would pervade.

Mira’s life was over in the only home she knew –
her fate had been decided, now a journey would ensue.

A dozen families gathered and would soon be on their way
from a life so wrought with hazards and no reason left to stay.

Their guide would be an elder by the name of Al-Hassan,
who would take them to a village in the hills of east Amman.

A Syrian oasis that the locals came to know,
back before the mass migration made it hard to come and go.

They’d have to cross the desert and avoid the border guard,
so they took a path less traveled – that was treacherously hard.

They couldn’t risk a journey down a heavy traveled road,
lest they end in Za’atari where some eighty-thousand showed.

A sea of canvas dwellings on a stretch of desert flat
was a haven safe from shelling – but it wasn’t more than that.

They’d travel past the Golan Heights and Sea of Galilee,
then they’d cross a wash in north Jerash – a band of thirty-three.

They’d planned to gain provisions in the little towns they crossed,
where they’d count on benefaction since they couldn’t bear the cost.

But most had been deserted, or the pickings very slim –
there was little use for money, only trade amongst the men.

With little left to barter and a desperate need for food,
there were those who’d seek solutions from within their very brood.

Mira held a value, that to some was more than gold –
if a man was to extract her – someone villainous and bold.

Though plans were laid to take her in the peacefulness of night –
the attempt was unsuccessful and resulted in a fight.

A flash of due protection with a fiercely gallant stand
left a beast of moral flexion ‘neath a mound of harrowed sand.

‘Twas just another image for a young girl’s haunted mind
of a heated act of scrimmage and a family left behind.

A few more days of fending in the scorching desert sun
and their journey would be ending – they’d no longer need to run.

They never would have made it, were it not for being fed
by the Bedouins they encountered on the path that lay ahead.

But brave determination that was fueled by great despair
helped them reach their destination – was a victory to declare.

And unlike many others, they were met with great acclaim
by a town with common values – who were very much the same.

Mira was adopted by some folks from Al-Rastan
who had lost their only daughter when the battles first began.

They too had sought asylum from a life of pain and dread –
so they left their past behind them and they chose to look ahead.

But Mira couldn’t pardon such an unprovoked attack –
an event that left her hardened and she swore she'd pay them back.