Migrants Poem by Tsani Jones

The fields are empty,
All workers asleep.
A harvest dormant
In permanent holiday.

One day we shall cry,
And mourn,
And rip our clothes.
One day, we shall remember.

Recall the fields of green?
They turned gold,
Then barren,
As the traversing of the sun.

And with them so
Shall we,
For as they say,
'This too, shall pass.'

The workers have no
Leader,
No passion or desire,
No lust, or hunger.

For they are gone,
To new verdant expanses,
To new islands of hope
And on to new holidays.

We are here
But a short time,
Let us bide our time together
Gathering our lilies.

Let us love,
Dream, hope,
Paint the sky
Of God touching man.

Let us emerge,
Rejuvenated,
Lovers and statuesque
Visions from the sea.

May we spread an
Enlightened decor
Onto a new sky,
And anchor them with moonbeams.

For this world turns
And becomes fallow,
But we do not.
Let us find new fields.

We are the workers.