Refuge
On an airless summer evening
I sit in the garden
remembering how
we came with nothing
but the clothes we wore
to an unfamiliar address
scrawled on well-thumbed paper
dreaming of safety,
a city paved in freedom.
Two dingy rooms
in a tenement block
that smelled of cabbage,
unwashed bodies, mould-damp walls.
Ten hours a day
bent over a factory machine,
counting the pennies
to give the landlord on rent day
summer heat, winter frost.
But no more listening
for the stamp of soldiers’ boots
black smoke from burning homes,
no shots fired, women raped
no river of blood
flowing to death camps.
Sums up the situation very well. I wish those against mass-immigration would think about these types of things!
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Thanks very much.
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Reblogged this on smithsurf and commented:
Poem number 8: the Writers for Calais Refugees blog.
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Thanks for linking!
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Thank you for translating Nina’s poem!
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