Sub-Saharan corpses sprawl on beaches
between Tarifa and Gibraltar,
while tourists go on soaking up the sun
and reading glossy magazines.
For Sub-Saharans, life and death are one.
The few who have survived the crossing
will try to sell fake watches and CDs.
Ignored, they'll drift around like ghosts -
unknown, unloved, unheard, unseen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem