A small window with a blank curtain
emitting no light.
The ceiling fan is spinning.
No sound is heard.
A French fry container is open
on the floor beside a Washington Post paper
and a big coffee mug, that has no coffee.
An unmoving body has crashed out on a thin mattress.
The smoke from a cigarette between two of his fingers fills the room.
His hand is hesitant to grab the last fry.
It’s probably cold and dry.
It looks delicious
but it won’t taste delicious.
He seems in no mood to eat
after yesterday’s junk food dinner
that he had with his thoughts.
His head is on the pillow that he holds whenever the inner battles begin.
I ask him, “what battles?”
“Of finding a place to call home, of finding a place to call home!” His eyes fill with tears, and he breaks the silence.
Mohammed S Arafat
July 15th, 2020
This poem is dedicated to the refugees of Palestine, Yemen, Syria, Afghanistan and many other war-torn countries, who are still looking for a home.
With every word
The rush of night waves lapping across my mind
Your light enters the dark room of my soul
And I am redeemed
A low hum turns into a roar
whispers become chants
thunder drums beat into the heart
of all that needs telling
In a slow
carefully woven tale
An old moss-ridden porch
longs for company
in a deserted neighbourhood
The sound of children suffering from some far off shore in my ear
The tears of first light shed a certain sadness as I listen for a sparse hope
But all that transmits is an echo of fear...
Seems to me that our world has gone mad
We have forgotten the meaning of life and it makes me sad
Green yards and shining new cars are far more important
Than the lives of refugee seeking shelters, moving like torrent
Nature is forsaking us, and with reasons
We have let ourselves go too far and have commited treasons
I can't see where it ends, but can see how
Our planet will die, by our hand since it is allowed
When the sun rolls her eyes
A soft whisper reminds him
You’re home free once you lay inside
Barbed wires and lilac thieves
He's cloaked from head to toe
The Promised Land saws at his knees
Raising her head, she cries
Only not for stars or dreams
But to fill as though she is ten, not five
It’s the destination, not the journey they say
Preaching as though you don’t have soil to stay
Listening into the black and white picture screen
Ripples draped in red
They are not called she, he, only thing
Left less than animals
Tell me again why you believe this man covered in cloth
Is any less than the man who hides behind a rock
'A refugee is someone who has been forced to flee his or her country because of persecution, war or violence. A refugee has a well-founded fear of persecution for reasons of race, religion, nationality, political opinion or membership in a particular social group. Most likely, they cannot return home or are afraid to do so.'
A blue boat
in the Mediterranean,
seven hundred balance,
an unchosen arc,
rocking hearts dulled
by a slender chance
Bitter dread grips
those not in boats,
greeted by the unexpected,
fumbling the knot of wrongdoing.
bob in peaks and troughs.
abandonment of hope
and the next breath
A remembrance of
a slender space
holds all refugee stories
wave after wave.
Written in solidarity with those left homeless by war and threat of death.
Teary eyes with heavy heart,
Moving towards a new land
A place where I will be called refugee
Which is far away from my home
For which my heart beat forever.
Other's can feel the same
But cannot match the pain
I am the one who is alien
Why this is happening
Greed for money and power
Change my heaven into fire
Leaving my motherland to other's land,
Do they accept me as their own
I dont know what will happen
But will keep praying, one day I will
be at my motherland
And the tag will become only a word.
It try to describe the pain, dificulty and thinking of a refugee.