The Migrant of Venice

I sit in a tent, rain pouring down My children are crying, no food to eat. My spirit is failing, starting to drown, Hands clasped in prayer, my God to entreat. My homeland has perished, corruption and war. Our houses destroyed, our lives ripped apart. Inhuman brutality to even the score The only choice left was to make a new start. I am not a migrant, nor scum of the Earth But driven by force at the point of a lance. Educated, hard working, a person of worth, Am I not worthy to be given a chance? Described with derision, insulted and harmed, Demoted to numbers contained in a speech. Our boat was a lucky one, only becalmed The others all drowned, bodies found on a beach. I am not subhuman, good Lord above I must give my children a chance to succeed To live life in freedom, respect and love, If you prick us do we not bleed?