We are the people
Who wouldn't hurt a creature.
We wait and we wait,
For them to leave of their own accord.
The children waited weeks,
Thinking and hoping
The spiders would leave the homes they made
Between bicycle handles.
Tear down the webs, their father said
You'd get to go cycling, he said.
But isn't that how, they replied
How some become refugees, they asked.
Who are we
Why would we tell them
Where to call home or where they're not welcome?
Who are we
Why would we tell them
That a comfortable home could be a promise of tragedy?
We didn't think it would come to this,
But it isn't hard to believe.
We didn't think they would dare,
But the damage lays done.
As wounded souls without faces
We march ahead,
To empty places or spaces
As strangers to a foreign world.
Clumped and dried, blood lines the paths
Bringing back memories of the outsider's wrath.
You'd think the rains falling
Would rid us of feeling - downcast.
For us, it's the feeling
Of the skies falling - upon us.
We didn't think it would come to this,
But it isn't hard to believe.
We are strangers in our own land,
Drenched in the tears of those left behind.
Far from eye or ear,
So close yet not near.
We once were many,
But now far too few.
We will never heal
But these pictures will reveal,
The difference between
Soldiers and warriors.
One hurts, under the guise of protection.
The other hugs, to mend things broken.
One can be anyone - you, me, them
But not everyone can be human.
We are the warriors,
From Syria and Afghanistan
Venezuela and South Sudan,
Drenched in the tears of those left behind,
In hopes the world will not be blind,
To our homes that once shined.
By : Saswata Acharya
II B. A. Communicative English