An immigrant man has no land his own,
no language to speak, son,
only soil to lay his pains,
words for his sorrow.
Hopes for return.
Return to where he once belonged.
A beautiful land near the seas
with dry breath and poor seeds,
wrinkled burning faces.
Waiting a tomorrow.
But tomorrow never comes.
Captive among the few
in mercy of the ruling,
bloodied hands.
No choice, just run.
An immigrant man has no land his own,
no language to speak, son,
only soil to lay his pains,
words for his sorrow.
Ovi poetry 