Aya is 8 years old,
her home is in detention,
behind barbed wire and fences,
in a no-mans land,
a landscape mired in abandonment.
Aya is shivering with cold,
her jacket was once white,
now it is drenched with rain,
and covered in mud,
her brother cries, he wants the
touch of his mother,
her father desperate as well,
wants them both delivered to safety,
this is not a place where dreams will flourish,
there are no tents for shelter, just seas of misery,
disturbed intersections between what passes as
a frontier of freedom.
Aya is one fragment of many shattered journeys,
the nagging pain of humanity’s pulse,
the drifting sadness of frightened children,
terrified people,
with broken hearts and broken homes,
four thousand refugees stranded and abandoned,
within yards of the European Union.
Aya I am truly ashamed,
of the despair that follows your journey,
wish I could point you in the direction of paradise,
support your tiny soul, strengthen your arms,
stop the nagging persecution, detention, trauma,
release you from the tears of seperation, anxiety and grief,
clasp your wishes, send you protection,
allow you to continue your journey,
to a land of security and hope,
anywhere than this grim wasteland,
no place for an innocent child.
I am not a silent poet 