by Nick Gisburne
She only wanted space to hide, to rest.
Tomorrow, when you find her, she’ll be dead.
Our governments decided they detest
The thought her kind was ever born or bred.
We’ll never see the star that gave her breath,
Or comprehend her passage to this place,
But, in these bitter moments, see her death
Describe, define, deride the human race.
The fugitives, a hundred thousand strong,
Arrived with nothing, starved, bewildered, weak.
We told them no. Go back. You don’t belong.
We closed our hearts. We turned the other cheek.
She longed for life. We’ll never know her name.
Tomorrow, think of her, of them, with shame.
