Ian Jones Poet Quatrain

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?

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Edlynn Nau June 29, 2016 at 2:08 AM This was explicit in helping the reader to see that we are all immigrants and all refugees. It helps us to know that it can be a political coup d'é·tat or an event by nature that could displace us. Life is so very fragile and we hardly see it until we walk with death ourselves. The appeal through the saving of our children is as pointed as one could make it! Ian Jones June 29, 2016 at 2:44 AM Thank you very much. It is easy to dehumanise when viewing through the media but disaster can strike any of us at any time and I would just like to hope that there will always be someone willing to help. Kind regards, Ian