Whoever said freedom was a man’s right must’ve been rich:
A benchmark for those unblessed with resource or wit;
and in their poverty,
unable to enjoy the poetry of life, never mind Dante, Kipling, Keats and Poe.
He couldn’t possibly be an immigrant, a regular Joeh.
A man black like the midnights in Sudan,
and weary like the whipped red dirt of his homeland.
Only certain sirs might theorize about freedom,
having never known its opposite:
the vexing hopelessness of the outcast poor.
Like a hot summer without rain humbles the arrogant, and elevates the divine,
a man of means need not associate with hope, without an antagonist’s insistence.
But a poor foreigner religiously dreams of a compassionate land,
where, with hands outstretched, they welcome the disadvantaged,
knowing he knows of nights without the moon, or stars;
and without poetic standards to soothe a noisy hollow,
long rumbling about the shortage of food.
Needy instead of free, he banks on the mercy of the romantic:-
the one reciting a tale about a precious messenger raven,
a midsummer night’s dream, the elements of an inferno,
the abstracted nature of being.
But thank heavens for the light of poetry,
if in some tender moment, all men see their equality,
unhindered by the foreign notion, inexplicably present in developed nations,
that innocent men should be penned and tortured without mercy!