Immigrant
by Walter William Safar
Oh, promised land,
For whose sake I am leaving Honduras,
The place where I was born.
I am haunted by my mother’s tired face.
Through my realms
It floats around me like a dreamlit night,
Into my young dreams,
When they flowered in bloom,
You poured hope into them.
Can’t you hear the anguish in my voice,
The voice of an entire lost generation?
Now I’m running to reach
The freight train without a timetable,
The one which death took
Thousands, tens of thousands young immigrants,
While the untamed “beast” carries me towards the promised land,
Apparitions float within dreams,
He is writing a letter to his old mother,
Touching his mother’s old heart
With his anguish,
And that cry,
His heart’s yell,
Will be carried by the wind tomorrow
Into boundless dark nights.
The beautiful light of the promised land has
The best of the dark and the best of the glow
In its heart’s dream.
There, in the faraway promised land
My little brother is waiting for me.
Does he sob from the depths of his soul at night
Like our old mother does?
There are horrible shadows of poverty in the world,
Drowning in great pools of blood.
Where do all those horrible shadows of poverty go?
Does the promised land accept them all?
Do they make her richer or poorer?
One thing I am sure of:
My beloved Honduras,
Withered from waking,
Soaking with great pools of blood,
A golden light is dreaming, the sun’s face
In the waves of her curls,
And from her chaste cheek flows
The blood of greedy politicians, tycoons and bankers
…the blood of pharysees…
The blood of poverty and horrible misery
…the blood of people cheated in courtrooms…
The blood of children orphaned too early…
The blood of farmers flowing along the chests of destroyed fields…
And the blood flows in great pools with new immigrants,
In the freight wagons without a timetable…
The blood of those who lost their dignity…
The blood of those who are dying… without a timetable…
While I am planning my long journey,
I am leaning my hot lips against the cold face
Of a freight wagon without a timetable
Like an alcoholic against dishonorable drinks,
And I give in to dreams,
To travel before me to the promised land.
Can it be any other way
In the life of an immigrant?
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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