She was only eighteen months old.
So well had she looked yesterday,
So full of health, life and joy,
So full of good cheer.
But a storm came last night,
On the bosom of my mother she lay,
With nothing but mama's hands,
Tears and love to shield her,
She coughed once, twice
Thrice, and she was gone.
Frozen to death, in a foreign land,
But this is where she was born,
Far, far away from home,
So was she buried.
Till morning, mama held her,
As cold and hard her lifeless body grew,
Her hands, we had to wrench off,
To lay dear Malta to rest,
In the same, same place.
Same place we were yesterday,
Same place we've gathered everyday,
Every morning before sunrise,
And laid one more to rest,
And prayed.
Prayed that it would all end,
Prayed that our suffering would die,
And then, with our bare hands,
In the early morning light,
We've buried them.
And how can it all end, we've asked,
When naked, our children walk. Their
Playmates swarms of mosquitoes,
Diarrhoea a way of life,
How can they not?
How can they not die,
When wild fruits and tubers is all
The food they know. When their
Mothers' breasts have run dry,
How can they?
How can they live and play,
When the only shelter they know,
Is the shadow of a dying camel?
The only drink they know,
Contaminated river water.
Who will save the children?
Who'll bring laughter to them once more?
Who'll feed, clothe and shelter them,
Who'll make them smile again
In this strange land.
Yes, I cry for the children,
Children born in refugee camps,
Living thro' each day a cry,
For a longing, a belonging,
A place to call home.
And each day I look at them,
Like that one, he has no life left in him,
Soon he'll die, like all the others. And
With our hands, we'll bury him
In the early morning light.
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