The Buddha has Left

The Buddha has left, and the tree
Stands confused.
The waves have left, and the sands
Remain scratched.
The lightning has left, and the clouds
Lay in disarray.
The thunder has left and silence
Mutes into silence.
The clouds have left, and the mud
Lies muddled.
The nightingale has left, and the song
Stays unsung.
You, my Buddha, has left, and
My Tree of Life is barren.

Refugee Camp

Our roofs were torn away, often violently,
We were asked to pillar their rooms,
Saying they’d provide us shelter.
We were atlassed upon, we shrugged, taking,
To our roots, in our green earth, though not for long.
We were weeded out, and seeds sown,
Of landmines and grenades well planted.
Toxic fumes to kill “pests”, ya that was our new name,
Birds in the air, to rid the field of worms, that's us again,
Seeds watered red through trenches blown apart.
A rich harvest of camouflaged crops and corps, they got.
They seeded and weeded us again, more ruthlessly.
When they said they’d picked crops with corps,
They did not say they made corpses of both.
They said we’d be planted, back where they took us from.
Yet they took from us, where they took us from.
Rootless and roofless, we are, left hanging in their gardens,
Of barbed fences painted green. While the world looks on,
And showers accolades on our leader, only we know,
Refugee camp is a euphemism for a butcher’s yard.