In Kampos, where the citrus grows
you wouldn’t know that at a stone’s
throw there’s another place you would
not go, no, not at all despite the wall of Chios’ castle
tall and Grecian ruins old whose awesomeness would have you there
where migrants stare and sleep and
tear their hearts apiece
and bear the inhumanity
of sea-side tents, brutality that is the life of each refugee.