Their Syrian breaths washed up in Lesbos
In a yellow dinghy lay moans of ancestors
Migrating silently into beautiful nothingness.
Some say England is a boat full of foreigners
These captains live in the beautiful quarters
Throwing people overboard who float like oars.
Some say refugee like they came from Atlantis,
A place that no one found or ever looked for
Where shoes roll on sea beds closer to the shore.
Some say send them home like they have one
Arguing on Facebook of faces they never saw
Except for children born from arms of the ocean.