The night’s a shield, on feline feet
he passes watchmen’s lines, to reach
across the border to our streets,
and there at dawn, he’s found a seat
in dust; his red-rimmed eyes: a bridge
through shields of night, on feline feet
But armored we deny his needs
we cannot see: he’s poor we’re rich
with empty eyes that fill our streets.
Our watchman’s heart, still coldly greet
the migrant child, his desert speech
from darkest nights on feline feet.
“My sister’s raped, and I’ve been beat”
His hand is trembling as he speak
“I crossed the borders for these streets”
But watchmen’s hearts are cold with fear:
“We need a fence, so they can’t sneak
across the border to our streets”
But why, as watchmen, don’t we treat
them well, and bring delight to bleak,
for those that come on feline feet
across the border to our streets.
Today we have a guest blogger at dVerse Poetics, and we are urged to talk about the watchman. A watchman is often something good, and used as such in many metaphors throughout history. Today with people escaping the most terrible ordeals I have a feeling I see the watchman more a the icy cold heart that protects us against compassion.
September 1, 2015