Where are the ministers, the presidents,
by Sarah Chowdhury
The journalists and the residents.
Why aren't you looking at me.
Am I a frozen pea,
At the back of your fridge
Or a falling bridge.
Can't you see
What's happening to me.
Don't deserve to live
Or the only thing I will do is give.
Give tears and blood,
Like the water when there is a flood.
Can I not sleep in peace,
I can't because of the police
I am always in worry
Because I can be squished like a rat under a lorry.
My country is in chaos
Are you busy having a party at Laos?
My mum was shot.
My dad got caught,
While trying to run away with me.
This is what's happening to me, you see.
I am lying down restlessly,
And watching the conflict helplessly.
Seeing which, I feel the pain,
That has cut through my vein.
Can't I be
In an other country
They cut me like a little tree.
They the government,
Who say they are going for the countries betterment,
Cut children into pieces,
That's what happened to my nephew and nieces.
What an extreme way of torture
Agreed by many researchers.
I am a Syrian
Writing to American, Australian and Victorian.
About things going on in my homeland,
And requesting a helping hand.
Aren't you going to help me, asking you again and again,
Or you are concerned as I'm not among the Englishmen.
This is my story.
Which are said to be our glory.
I wrote to you.
While the strong winds blew.
To might be just a letter,
But this is a true time matter.