The Displaced Poem by Birgitta Abimbola Heikka

From the T.V., each day, they stare at me
The ones now labeled "The Displaced"
In region, color, religion, they differ
In all directions, dispersed
From Syria to Somalia; from Congo to Croatia.

Faces of children glare from the screen
Their eyes no longer beam
For troubles beyond their years they have seen.
Young mothers with milk dried-up
Hold at their breasts crying babies parched
Yearning for milk
Old men and women with eyes blood shot
Trudging through baked sand on bones bent and wizened

Oh!Some are lucky to find shelter
For a month or so in new homes, far from home
But like dogs diseased are they chased and pelted with rocks
"Go back home! " are the welcoming words
"There is no home", an audacious voice replies
"It's been burned down; the embers are still searing
And the bombs are still raining".

There is no home for the displaced
Persona non Grata in search of shelter
His fate suffers not by his choice, for a traveler is he
On a ship steered by a mindless captain
Unconcerned for his safety.