Wear the new triangles,
behind the chain-link fences,
orchestra of crying children,
dread anthem of the summer sun,
Separate the little ones,
no need to sew the yellow to their shirts,
they wear their badge forever,
on their skin,
Build the wall and mend the wire,
with bricks of fear send it higher,
until all the good is on the pyre,
and the sky is gone,
Concentration camps in the desert,
for babes as well for men,
who carry the mortal sin,
of being born poor,
Here in the land of plenty,
the well of dignity it is empty.
good enough to fight the wars,
and pick the fruit,
but not to stay.
by Ruairí de Barra
Image by Greg Bulla from Unsplash. Thank you very much.