The Migrant Poem by Palitha Ranatunge

I am displaced like a tropical tree
Newly planted in an icy land,
The very sensitive edges of
It's roots cannot adjusted to
The coarseness of the hard soil,

The manure and water are bitter
Having no homely air to breathe
The coldness in the night unbearable
And other plantations around
Genetically mutated and artificial
Not friendly or sensitive at all,

No familiar birds, butterflies or little squirrels
No laughter, love and affection around
No sweetest melodies of gentle breeze
Carrying the fragrances of distant flowers
Blooming hidden within green mountains.

I have been desperate for salvation
Similar to the sufferings of Dick Wittington
Who had fled for green pastures in London
Dreaming of the streets made of gold
And houses made of diamonds and people
Who only ate chocolate cream?

This is not re-writing a fairy tale, for
There will be no masters with such kindness.
There will be one eyed cats to be sold
For half a kingdom and of course, no such
Foolish kings around offering such prizes,

Nor will there be Royal dinners where
Rats play hell on the dining tables,
The Big Ben would be dumb for a poor migrant…
Ben only sings at royal weddings
There will be no such fair elections for such
An unknown to become the Mayor of London.