I carry only this knapsack
on my back.
Where are you going?
you ask me.
I am going to the place of my birth,
many miles separate us;
I must walk for all
I am worth.
My bottle has run
dry.
Then, why must I
go on?
I work with mortar and brick
to build homes for
Others.
I find no shelter amid the
rubble here at work.
The trouble is-
my daily wages
cease to be. Not just me,
But many like me.
We are a mass of humanity
trying to crawl on to,
a truck, a bus.
I do not make a fuss.
I travel on.
Time will then
unravel all. Days
after, I am-put in a shelter.
Not the finest. But it’s
well deserved rest.
I’m migrating to the
the village I call home.
No matter where I roam
that village is home.
My hope,
my family.
Dreaded miles completed,
only to be doused with
disinfectant.
Am I not worthy?
I ask.
Am I not human?
I am. I will migrate.
Hell or High Water.
to return to wife, daughter,
mother and what I know;
is mine.
I will migrate, where
I am accepted.
For now, I must,
just be!
Pray for me!
A Poem by Odil Medeira
Pic Courtesy: bbc.com
