Ihaay

I  see a boat
Far and distant
Dwindling in choppy waters
Drawing near me each second
Shrouded by shrouds and shards of mist
The mist of fear the mist of pain
A hand drawn out
But I refrain
I see a boat.

I see a boat
Quite far still
And here I am
On my windowsill
Gazing afar, seeing nothing
Beyond the mists the boat blurring
Almost sinking, almost drowning
Visages of human corpses frowning
Fleeing, running, sprinting 
from the land they called their home
Forty thousand we count
Yet burning all alone
Four hundred dead
Thousands fled
Others bled 
All hues of red
But still
I see a boat.

I see a boat
Much nearer now
My grey cells blinking
The right side thinking
Time to do something
Time to go online
So I go online
And type the phrase
The Rohingya Refugee crisis
The links appear
First four all four
Donations
Donations
Donations
Donations
From a hundred dollars to seventeen fifty
And I wonder
I don't have enough to donate
How will I look after myself
What will happen to me
How will I survive
Because no matter what
I come first.
So I shut it down and go offline
But still see that boat

I see a boat
Now at my shores
At this final crucible I call my country
I look at those faces
With meagre traces
Of happiness that once stayed there
But died long ago.
I look at those eyes
Those ghettos flaming
I look at my own
All empty, blaming
Everything but me
In this fairy world
So free.
Inanition playing stealthily on those lips
Those tiny , forsaken, forgotten blips.
Forced to flee
From their own country
Seeking refuge in this 
Hollow hellhole.
Their bodies open PDFs of 
a 'textbook case of ethnic cleansing'
Such sacrilege, such travesty
Of all giving humanity.
But that's not all I see.
I see something else too
My own self in that boat.
I ask myself
I ask I wonder
I think I ponder
What if one day I'm in that boat
And someone else is the spectator
What if I'm the one 
Being washed away
By the waves of past
On shores all grey
So I do the one thing I can
I twist the doorknob in my hand
And open the door
And open the door 
To make this Utopia believable
The Idea of 'home' conceivable.
For doors are all they see
It's you who has the key.