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