A young boy,
between eight and thirteen
these were what he heard
what he had seen,
while moving as fast
as their caravan
would allow,
fleeing from waves
of Mongol hordes somehow.

From Afghanistan and Tajikestan
to Anatolia and Konya, they journeyed far
though not just like today, when
frightened wayfarers
sometimes travel by boat or car.

It wasn’t from ISIS or al-Assad
or bombs from above, they fled,
but still
like today, they also bled.

So when you see the faces
of those young boys, their sisters
and all their families,
clamoring at your borders
invading your TVs,
please remember,
they are all Rumi
for Rumi
was a refugee.

(Rumi Was a Refugee, by A. Godlas, Sept. 26, 2016)