We were lost when we came to find ourselves,
unaware that we had been arrested—
On the Gulag floor ‘mist lice and ill-health,
We were blank men, torpid, vile, dejected;
Dying ones there told us what’s expected.
We had not heard the knock upon the door,
nor the clinking sound of gates erected,
and no one knew what he was taken for,
Nor why boots pushed his teeth into the floor.
The man who tortured me sold real estate,
in civilian life, a father of four.
Our heads but not our minds upon a plate;
They chopped our hair with rusty garden sheers;
Post-Saddam, these were American years.
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