There is a place,
where the sunflowers grow.
With such a striding spirt,
that no frontier can contain it.
Delicate blossoms,
are still in gnarled hands.
Of those from
an accursed place.
Yet, still they stand.
In unity, strength and belonging.
To face the demons breath.
And give us hope,
for a world with no strangers
A Wandering Poet 