“Every migrant has a name, a face and a story. The right to a home is not just for citizens, but for every human being. No one is truly free while others are denied a safe place to rest their head.” – Pope Francis
They flee like shadows cast by flame
From lands where the perished have no name.
Their homes are smoke, their streets erased,
All their whispers now displaced.
They come on waters dark as grief,
Their pasts a blur, their journeys brief –
But long enough to bear the weight
Of all they’ve lost. Of every gate
That closed upon them like the night,
As feeble hands reached for the light.
But the light is dim on distant shores,
Where Borders Hold like Iron Doors.
A line invisible yet far too clear,
Where Hope is met with hate and fear –
Even a babe fresh from the cot
Is possibly Sinister, probably not.
They raced from fire, dust, and cries,
From towns that burned beneath the skies,
Where war’s a constant, not a storm
And exile’s breath became the norm.
Yet here, they’re turned with words of steel,
As if their wounds are less than real.
They are the phantoms of foreign lands,
With empty pockets and trembling hands,
Who carry all they cannot say –
Their children’s futures swept away.
A Hope that’s built on shattered bones,
Of places lost, of empty thrones.
But still they seek through winds that mourn,
Across the waves, their Dreams reborn.