The land is strange, And the circumstances foreign. All they want, is to breathe, The flavours of their motherland.
The world is locked and strange. Breaths panting, feelings burning, And their hearts yearn, For the place that feels home.
The rich fly on planes, But they walk bare foot, Yoked by the burden of A bunch of helpless souls.
Parched by the blazing sun, Wounded by bleeding soles, Exhausted by hollow stomachs, They carry their lives in their hands.
Tortured by borders, Thrashed by trains, Upturned by trucks, Their lives depart.
They are stamped ‘insignificant’, But they are the significant lives, Moulding the backbones, Of an uncaring society.
They build roofs above our heads, They cook our food, clean our houses. The markets run, the factories work, Because of these (in)significant lives.
Aggrieved by agony, we read Through their stories. Being helpless, We scroll down to ‘new releases’, And switch back to Netflix.
They aren’t vermins, to be Left to rot and die. Their lives are significant, And that makes us significant.
By Albeena Stephen