Habūb.
He came with the wind,
And you can see it on his face.
Stormy seas, endless deserts, hostile trails over mountains unused to bare feet.
He wants nothing, but for the wind to stop blowing,
for his road to stop winding, constantly,
unforgivingly changing direction every time he hopes to arrive somewhere. Anywhere.
But there is no place for him; he is nobody.
Murmurs of an indignant crowd stirs up a storm that keeps him moving
Running to keep safe, although nothing can protect him now.
And when he finally falls, the murmur grows silent for a moment.
The world is given a chance to rethink,
A chance to right the wrongs, to wake up and smell the death of inaction.
The crowd regroups, changes its chant, repaints its door and stands there,
Ready to rise up and scream.
But they aren’t screaming for the death of the fallen man.
They do not wipe for his demise, searching for peace at the end of inhumanity.
They wipe for themselves,
they demand justice for themselves,
they cry STOP!
But it does not stop, it never stops.
And it is their fault.
Calais migration crisis, 2015-07-29
