As the hot wind blew, and the child’s golden coiffure looked dry
But all my money was kaput, and the hot sun wouldn't let me cry
Should I have left the child to find his way back home?
Because deep in the desert is what they call home.
I don’t know how I got here, maybe I had been deported in my dreams
The child hadn't spoken; all there was were silent screams
I shouldn't have helped a stranger
I couldn't even take care of my own self
All that was left for me were torn shoes I found on my feet
And now a child in my arms, I don’t know how he got there
It’s not my fault that I am here; someday I’ll get to a better place
And find a home by God’s grace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem