Saturday, May 13, 2017

The Refugee

The cracks and groans of the house in the wind
like an old ship tied up dry.
The shrivelled dreams and shreds of flag
flap their last goodbye.

To foreign lands in a paper boat,
I’ll seek compassion there.
In shackled chains and shanty camps
I’ll find a home, beware.

Our blood it runs from Yankee guns,
seemingly mysteriously delivered. 
NATO there with a cold hard stare,
contemptuously conniving in the killing.

In secret cells near worn out bells
we’ll plot and plan for homecoming.
Though such a thing is a journey far,
in a world turned mad and loathing. 

..we have a problem... people cowed down / hiding in their kitchens so politically correct and not able to act :-(