Migrants From Africa
Looking silly with attires of cheap jeans and not even beans for our belly, like satires
by Swamidhason Francis
Of creation, we move north, gazing at Europe and brazing the dazzling Sahara Sun;
The militias gave us Guns to fight and shells to shoot, killing our sons just for fun.
Their angst shriveled our future and we moved in droves with dreams like Martyrs
Towards the border-less Libya at the shores of the Mediterranean, with desires,
To reach the land of Europe and euro life or to reach the end of life at the hand held gun;
Winter is our hostile cover and spring is pleasant to die, listening to dirges of pun.
While autumn will uncover us to patrols, summer is when, on water bed, everyone retires.
So, to migrate, winter is our best bet, but spring is when the urge is more for voyage;
It’s better to float in water holding the god of fortune tight as our souls quiver like waves,
Lest to have a bloated burial, than to end it in horrid Sahara under its arid sand seas.
Thus, with heads full of hope and hearts filled with our punctured past we make the voyage;
Children cling to moms in fright while grown-ups cringe with fate as our lives move like waves;
Always reaching the shores of life, either that of Europe or of Eternity; that’s left to the seas.