My hands are cracked and they are torn
It's been near a summer since last I wore any shoe
My home built of scraps all that I could find
It is the water, not the labor, I mind.
My children are weak. My youngest no longer speaks
Before the sunrise, my two boys and I take to the streets
There are no helping hands, no promises to eat
My family is slowly drowning, albeit on dry land.
Shots ring out night and day, killing my people as they pray.
We have to flee this war-torn land to America, they say
Arduous is the journey, however long, but my youngest can not hold on.
Skin pulled tight, and eyes sunken in, her body is set to sea.
We are too weak to weep, and tears we have no more
While my wife and children sleep, I dream of a word I heard... Freedom!
An exciting word, quite queer and absurd.
I see your flag in my mind; it stands for something that I've never had.
My wife and I can smile, knowing that our boys can grow old.
With my homeland behind, I grin, albeit my girl not knowing of America makes me sad.
To the Red, White, and Blue, I say thank you for They are taking us in.
About the Creator
Kevin Klabon
I am an artist, a musician, an author, a poet, a magician of the written word.
I live no life without pen and paper, or a paintbrush in hand.
If you could share your love for what I love, I would love you to the moon.
Keep reading
More stories from Kevin Klabon and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.