(In memory of Alan Kurdi, the two-year-old child who tragically became a poignant victim of the Syrian refugee crisis)
The tender lips of the warm black ocean
Kissed my blue feet in a rocking motion,
My puny brine-soaked body
Rested on the banks of sands so shabby.
The mighty turbid salt waters
Smelt of grease and fire crackers,
Roaring fireworks clouded the sky,
Tearing homes, blinded by battle cry.
The wet groaning sea breeze in rage,
Howled a language familiar but strange,
The shrill wails of my brothers and sisters,
Running amok, being called the resistors.
That night was starry, calm, and bright,
But I winced in pain, hunger, and fright,
Mamma covered my dusty dry lips,
Dismayed by shadows in guns and clips.
"No little one, don't be alarmed,
The war will end and we'll be unharmed,"
Mamma nursed me to a good night's sleep,
To my last one, the one so deep.
Guns and missiles left me to smother,
With rivers of red and a crying mother,
Walls around rumbled and crumbled to graves,
But a gush of wind took me beyond the waves.
The tides tossed my stock-still body so silly,
Tired, I drowned down the ocean's belly,
It halted, and there was no more turmoil,
I woke up, it no more did smell like soil.
Fountains of honey, orchards of berries,
With no more thoughts of hunger and worries,
Cheer and joy-filled pastures and meadows,
No gates, no hate, no tears of widows.
Forever stays this guarantee, this glee,
For here we blend, there's nothing to mend,
Warheads decide my days no more,
For I am Alan, the sleeping boy, here on.