They are but ten years old
Some as young as seven or less
Standing in car parks alone
On the edge of commercial space.
Our conscience of this is young
We make war on their lands
Murdered old nations and tribes
Acre on acre of genocide.
They had families and cousins
Who would guide them
A parent to suckle their growth
Now we stand them by streetlights alone
With no concern for their loss.
We realised, enlightened
That they have something to give
That we love and need their presence
So we transplant some of the kids
To the margins
Where they humanise brands
The great steel wharehouses
Motorways and railway tracks
Collared, isolated, startled and scared
Passive and under attack.
How long does it take
To find one of their kin
In the next pen
Fingers reaching out
To touch in darkness
Under the toxic shelters of black rock.
Over the tops of old brick
The elders rise, storied
Like veins on the sky
Like the earth's drowning hands
Thin as a cortex.
Will they adopt and make friends
Toddlers delivered swaddled in cloth
Just babies,
These trees, child refugees.
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