Atlantis by Antony Owen

Their Syrian breaths washed up in Lesbos

In a yellow dinghy lay moans of ancestors

Migrating silently into beautiful nothingness.


Some say England is a boat full of foreigners

These captains live in the beautiful quarters

Throwing people overboard who float like oars.


Some say refugee like they came from Atlantis,

A place that no one found or ever looked for

Where shoes roll on sea beds closer to the shore.


Some say send them home like they have one

Arguing on Facebook of faces they never saw

Except for children born from arms of the ocean.


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