The Migrant’s Dream
I dream of Ireland, lush and green
Its air fresh on my head and face
The outstretched hand
The welcoming embrace
Ireland, a place where strangers
Become friends and later, perhaps,
I native citizens
Shackled in this hellhole
I clasp my hands in prayerful fashion
My golden cinderella carriage
A torture chamber now
I close my ears tightly to the sound
Of death and dying on the waves
The stench is overpowering now
Sweat, vomit, animal feed, decaying bodies
It lies on me heavy and still
Fills up my ears, mouth and throat
Suffocating me by its insidious stealth
Death seems a welcoming release
I rouse myself
My dream keeping me alert
My belief
Ireland will welcome me
Ireland will be a welcoming place
Shackled both at head and feet
No sound permitted to pass our lips
The lights of a lighthouse
Guides the ship’s path
Grave quiet, we trundle
Off the heaving sea and on to Irish soil
I draw in a gasping breath
Fill my starving lungs with Irish air
Hear the seagull welcome cry
Stretch and kiss this holy land
My dream has come true
Ireland welcomes me
My gaze feasts on green patchwork pastures
Last leg of journey to a new home
My heart sings
Caed Mi Failte for me
Gemma Hill ©
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