written by: Andrada Costoiu
The sun above is scorching the playground,
The child burns his fingers on the only swing,
From outside the walls the eyes are watching,
His every move, his everything.
The camp keeps other people that fled from war- thorn place,
The snipers are now far, but other jailors rule this space.
A sad national symbol that flies above the ground,
Had stamped undocumented the boy’s and other souls
And locked them up because they made it,
While buried free the souls that drowned.
Pushing his legs the child is swinging higher in the sun,
Oblivious to man-made rules that shouldn’t,
Build cages for the lives of people like him,
Or for the lives of anyone.
Perhaps one day the current faith in borders,
Will dissipate just like the air under his swing,
Leaving the truth, good morals, justice and good conscience,
To document belonging to a society where fair will be the king.
Latest posts by Andrada Costoiu (see all)
- Undocumented - December 10, 2020
- Wishing On Dandelions - September 5, 2020
- The “Go Away” Gnome - July 3, 2020