Hidden Arrows

This grim February, away from Africa, where this beauty offends no one, where no preference for safety, Far away from Love, I heard the echoes of war, unfriendly torrents rippling the air, ambition suspended, in the middle of nowhere, mundane things now ephemeral was there money in the Bank? The vicissitudes of life, I joined the speedy flight for safety, amidst countless confused faces hurrying to the Polish pole, Wearied through the wintry nights hungered, frightened and pale. seeking kindness in the gloom At the Border, fleeing to safety from war, They Pierce me without a sword, they cut so deep through the pains of bygone years. “You are not welcome here.” My Offence, I am African.