To the unidentified african immigrant, deceased while crossing the sea over to Europe, a poem by Irena Novanska, march 2012
We are coming, we are going
Going for days crossing the Sahara desert
Scarse water, no food, no rest, no music, no shade
Legs strong, thats where world records in running come from,
Yet the Sun is making me weak
I am thristy
I want food
We all do
Crowded in boats, like sardins in a box,
Like black slaves crossing the Atlantic,
Over the seas separating Europe and Afrika
Trying to reach the countries of our dreams
I want to be happy
I want to survive
We all do
I payed my last money, the smuglers dont care anymore,
Boats turn in the waves, not all, but all too many,
Enough to make the sea a mass grave of the nameless,
A fluid grave of perished black africans
I want to relax my body
I want to stop hurting
We all do
Afrika, you are loosing so many, cry for us
Europe, you are loosing so many, cry for us
Newspapers reporting of boats turning, never showing a face,
Every one of us just an unidentified black african
I didnt want to die
I dreamed of a better life
We all did