The migrant workers headed "home" to save
their dignity,
Regardless of the miles they'd roam, to flee iniquity,
Despairing for a “life” of sorts amongst their very
own,
Albeit have-nots, there's surety: they will not die
alone.
At each step, though, the mind's awhirl: Should I
go on or not?
If someone calls ‘em back again, perhaps they’d say:
Why not!
But on they trod in th’ burning sun, with fever
too, 'tis told,
And plod on through the dark of night despite the
bitter cold.
The single aim of reaching “there” is all that's on
their mind
The government's aid did come so late, it almost seems
unkind.
The colourful hopes of home so dear that in their
hearts they carry
On and on as zombies would; they’ll be there if only
they hurry!
But all their dreams of getting home will surely be
washed out
When they approach their borders, (their
energy all ebbed out),
They see the camp that'll be their home until
declare-d clean
Not knowing if the "home" ahead has
likely lost its sheen.
In weary fourteen days and nights of check n check
again,
Their hopes and dreams of home, should not, shall not
have been in vain.
For years they toiled in silv’r-edg’d dreams while
steeped in muck and grime;
They look back now and sadly say: That was a sordid
time.
The land now beckons, the family reckons that now
they won’t reject them.
But, post this purgatorial spell, no metro can
attract them,
Knowing that no “Minimum Wage” nor “E.S.I.” protect
them.
The joys of “working-for-your-home”, how sadly
we neglect them.
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