The call has been sounded,
yet we swing from pillar to post.
The sounding of the call astounds
us. One watching the movements
wonders why this swing from
here to there.
This migration endless has caught
us unawares. Nobody plans to be
going from pillar to post. Yet on
and on we go.
The cry of a child once meant we
were home. Today it means life has
nowhere to rest it's head. Weary are
those whose journeys drive them from
pillar to post.
We walk on their shadows,
we invisible wanderers,
wondering when our own
traverse will come to
an end. The places of
wondering, like village
gardens have been claimed.
They have been planted and
weeded with a fine combing
that says no immigrants here.
Yesterday stands in the past
in this call that sounded when
the guns fired and pellets hit
the wall. Get out! Their sound
was what began this wandering
from pillar to post.
Immigrants have no mark on the
forehead. Nothing leads them on.
Their north star is hope for a
place to lay one's head and a
drink of warmth from the small
cup. Your movements from pillar
to post, teach you to open the door.
One day the sound will be for you.
From pillar to post, you will move
hoping someone will open a door.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem