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.
