When I Return From War

My people are scattered in distant cities.
My people wake up in Saigon and Managua.
They drink in bars in Zagreb and on those parapets in Split.
They get wasted on speed in Sarajevo nights.
They drive their kids to school on the streets of Vienna.
They hallucinate underneath the Berlin sky.
They hurry to work in Paris.
They play banjo in the bars of Edinburgh.
They practise yoga in Sombor.
They piss in the entrances of buildings in Belgrade.
They make love on the Bosporus.
They tell juicy jokes in the gardens of Mostar.
They wash dishes in the Copenhagen restaurants.
They are looking for a sunny spot in Oslo.
Homeless orphans, much like those Dickens boys and girls.
My people – I say.