Josef Wolanczyk

Canada

‘Twas the Voice of the Migrant

 

‘Twas the voice of the migrant,

I once heard them speak—

Just once, for you see,

They were awfully meek.

 

Oh, not without trying

To master their fear,

And what fears they had conquered

To make it to here—

 

What journeys they’d gone through,

What perils they faced,

When by hook or by crook

They were harshly displaced.

 

No, they’d come here with hopes

To begin life anew,

And with centuries of troubles

They planned to undo.

 

But the migrant was silent—

And one day I said,

“Should life not have improved

From the one that you fled?

 

“Do you stand as an equal?

Is your future now clear?

Are we treating you better?

Are you living in fear?

 

“You’re new, that’s true—and

We’ve had problems aplenty,

But it’s gotten much better

Since old 1920.

 

“You do us a service

By joining our state,

So why not speak up

For your rights? Now, why wait?”

 

And the Migrant replied,

In a quiet, tired voice,

“My friend, I must tell you

That I have no choice.

 

Whatever I think

Of this national joke,

Because of my accent

They’ll know that I spoke.”