children, end wars, Freedom, humanity, hunger, life, poem, poetry, politics, refugee, refugee camp, refugeecrisis, refugees, refugees crisis, syria, Syrian conflict, syrian refugees, syrian war, syriangirl, syrianrefugees, thirst, thought of the day, war
Another day another morn;
At this refugee camp;
The sun is not yet born;
And the floor is damp.
The tent’s walls are dug deep;
For when the sky does pour;
Whilst at all corners I sleep;
Mother sleeps at the rags made door.
I shouldn’t wake her up;
She is smiling while dreaming;
But the queues will soon fill up;
I guess I should be leaving.
I I’ll go bring some water; it’s only a mile;
So when she wakes up, she’ll have a greater smile.
Others won’t compromise I must hurry;
For I might have to rest or stop;
Not too much I can carry;
So, two jars will do the job.
Now my steps can’t compete;
With those of the elders, sigh;
Last to the well but at least;
Some are letting me pass them by.
After two hours in the sun;
My jars are full hurray;
I should carry only one;
And drag the other one I say;
I haven’t gotten far and it seems like years;
Replacing each drop I spill by salty tears.