Somewhere In Turkey, Near Syria

I lay my tired daughter down on a thin, borrowed, mat,
As the darkness comes, and the mountain cold
Wind flows, blowing over the brown flat
Refugee camp, which we now must call
Home, because everything else is gone,
And I hug my daughter, for it is really all
I can do, to try to keep her from crying
About being cold, and my wife will not weep,
For she is bravely fighting, she is really trying
Not to totally lose it, and so, we finally sleep...