He looked at his children and sighed,
his labouring wife by his side,
her panting and groaning rent the air
with pain, coupled with despair.
He felt the tears slide down his face,
prayed for a moment of grace,
and knelt to deliver his very own chile,
in a cruel world, beyond vile.
Holding his own bloody, broken mess,
his wife sobbing in her distress,
the wind cut through their tiny tent,
rain soaking, the bloodied bent
man, enslaved to the hatred of the lost,
and he alone counts the cost,
nowhere to go, no-one to offer a home,
they’ll die as his son in the womb.
Tomorrow they’ll move, wander more,
trying to cross oceans roar,
seeking only a safe haven for his kin,
dreaming of health to work again.
A thousand miles and hundreds to go,
the press helping others say, “No!”
“You cannot stay here, you don’t belong.”
All that’s left is his death song.
He prayed the Lord to end the torment,
of seeing starving children – meant
for living, not dying to the wealthy west,
for God’s grace to do his best.
While others sit in their homes at ease,
and post hate where they please,
he shares a crust and then hunts for more,
and greed replaces hope with law.