The Song of Alan Kurdi
Hey empty little shoe upon the bleeding sand,
If the wearer abandoned you long;
In whose hope do you stay adrift,
Bat your eye against all wrong?
I once had a lyre too,
On which I played your song;
Every string broke away one at a time,
But the slackest remained ever strong.
You trotted down the jotted hills,
You stood on meadows young;
When sadness had gutters filled,
Silence filled your lung.
Your trail has long been swept;
As laments the mighty sea,
Your soles are now grained to dust,
Beneath cold, hard debris.
Smitten by the charm of death,
Your wearer set you free!
When thunder broke a purple sky,
He knew it would not be.
He drifts away, he drifts away,
Away from where he would;
Foot smeared in blood too rife,
Stabbed by the holy rood.
Yet you cry unto the blue,
Scream for what is lost!
Night thrusts forth a lusty moon,
Upon a sea of frost;
A child lies still upon the froth,
The sea that spurned and tossed;
Now asleep, she ponders deep,
What a lost shoe cost.
Till this day when a sailor drunk,
Swears the Sirens still,
Hushed is he, choked for his deed,
And drowned against his will!