The refugees born for a land unknown

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The refugees born for a land unknown

We have dismissed their wrongs, now dull and old,

And little judgment days lost in the dark.

 

“I have fled through land and sea, blank land and sea,

Because my house is besieged by murderers

And I was wrecked in the ocean, crushed and swept,

Spilling salt angry tears on the salt waves,

My life waste water drawn down through a hole,

Yet lived. And now with alien eyes I see

The flowering trees on the unreal hills,

And in an English garden all afternoon

I watch the bees among the lavender.

Bees are at home, and think they have their place,

And I outside.

Footsteps on the stairs, two heavy, two light,

The door opens. Since then I remember nothing,

But this room in a place where no doors open.

I think the world died many years ago.”

Edwin Muir (1887–1959) was a Scottish poet and translator.

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Further Reading

 October 16

Some seventy-two years from the last American execution for desertion, the firing squad is a tough-guy pantomime for hacks and hams.