We turn the tide. We turn bad times to good
We turn around to a clement angle
A favorable crossroad. And yet there are no turns
To the refugee that can only turn around
To see Aleppo in flames. Turn, swirl your eyes
Like Mr Tambourine Man and still there is no high,
No LSD, opium or weed, only
The thread of prayer holding hope
As beads in a rosary. Burning the oils of hunger
And thirst, learning that the night
Is heavy from keeping awake and the days are
Long for the rubber slippers. A refugee,
Is a man without turn – no turning back – 
Just walking to one of many horizons
The mind cheering on the weary feet
Wishing they could turn back the clock
To the once golden fields of durum wheat.
Unlike a barren piece of land you see today
An arboretum of smoke canopies
Where runaway souls hover like kites
 Unstrung from unsuspecting kite-runners.