The immigrant boy calls to me
from behind the fence,
Where is my mother?
I tell him that I don’t know.
Why not? he asks.
A shitty taste rises in my mouth.
It’s called,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,complicity.
The immigrant boy calls to me
from behind the fence,
Where is my mother?
I tell him that I don’t know.
Why not? he asks.
A shitty taste rises in my mouth.
It’s called,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,complicity.
I am not a silent poet 
Concise and thought provoking. Just a few words to depict pain and our “complicity”…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for your kind comment!
LikeLiked by 1 person
My pleasure.
LikeLiked by 1 person