The Migrants

They had set sail in hope
in dinghies or rickety boats,
leaving their strife-torn shores
with a hope
for survival
for respite
for a new dawn that's not blood soaked.
They ended up in nondescript coffins
hopes dashed, lives lost
floating bodies in the blue Mediterranean
like flotsam that once lived.
A number on the coffin
no names, just a number,
not mourned by loved ones
only a handful of lucky survivors bawl,
they don't know the names of the dead
but a river of tears still flows
a saline taste reaching the tongues.
They were coming to the shores of prosperity,
They never gave a second thought
not the shaky boats on choppy seas.
Oh, to get away
from wars, from tribal blood thirst
from the poverty that strife creates.
The black, the brown, the mixed colours of Africa
on the move to the land of plenty
to the land that created all the trouble
created all the poverty
indigence is no way to live by
but for the greed of the white man has no limits.
Power games have made have-nots
of the people of North Africa.
They will keep coming
better to die in the hope of life
than commit hopeless suicide.