A short poem about ICE and their detainment centres on the border with Mexico.

To the giant I saw, dancing the halls

Your painted cape reaching, metal full of thoughts

You don’t know how to whistle.

So you pester the boy and the girl and the calls

That those men make for food.


To the girl I saw, walking the halls

Your painted face reaching, your face cold and sore

He taught you how to whistle

Then they banged on your door,

And your papers caught fire, like your home and your walls.


To the child I saw, jumping over their wall

Only bricks, and mortar, and sand from your soil

But your soil’s now theirs

And your home, and your door.

And all you do now, is whistle.

Written by Ria Davies

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