Loop by Angela E Brooks

It’s a loop in my head, I can’t get rid of it

Round and round it goes on an infernal merry-go-round

The migrant crisis, look how they suffer

Don’t turn away now the camera doesn’t lie.

But wait. Now the migrants are not migrants.

They are predators, preying on our generosity, our soft hearts.

Their children, abandoned, orphaned, alone, are not children.

They are ‘men of fighting age’ who should go back to war

And defend their country.

They’ll rape our daughters, rob us blind and

Treat with disrespect our elderly.

I read, and read, and read the news for changes.

Still they come. Crossing the seas in unsafe boats,

Children carried in arms, wrapped in silver, like presents.

The children are so appealing, the adults less so.

So they send the children first, every child a Trojan horse

Hiding many behind their pathetic childish frames.

It’s a deadly game with no winners.

Each terrible dawn breaking on another terrible day

And we hope and pray but still it goes on and

The loop in my head goes round and round and round.

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