Afghan refugees—
 
only the clothes on their backs
 
and some songs from home

 
 
 

On my morning walk
 
I glimpse a ravenous hawk,
 
flying home with prey.

 

 
 
 

Winter evening rain—
 
a blackbird keeps on flying,
 
bent on getting home.

 
 
 

If the moon should freeze,
 
how would I find my way home
 
on this wintry night?

 
 
 

How will the blackbird
 
find its way home in the mist
 
on this winter’s day?

 
 
 

With a wooden cane
 
an old man stabs his way home—
 
autumn afternoon.

 
 
 

Chilly waiting room—
 
I chide myself for leaving
 
my sweater at home.

 
 
 

Wind, relentless wind!
 
Even the crow starts wobbling
 
on its homeward way.

 
 
 

After the circus
 
the boy without a balloon
 
walks home all alone.

 
 
 

With no fixed address,
 
you and I, blue butterfly,
 
make this world our home.