At Roszke, the border dividing
Hungary from Serbia closes,
razor wire three meters high
coiling like the snake in Eden
around the single door, unopened.
All along the tracks that lead in,
toward any place with no war,
they squat, pitch their tents,
ask for water, pray for a night
sky clear of all but the glister
of a thousand ancient stars.
They walk on because not to
is to accept the barbed rail
wagon at Horgos—unmistakable
sign that no gap in the crossing's
allowed. Two kilometers on
they try again, again see how
the snake coils as they press
up against its solid metal skin.
They have no time for tears.
They don't know another door's shut,
the bus for Germany already gone.
2015 © Maureen E. Doallas