Torn from Home

They came with dreams and hands that toil,

To work the land and till the soil.

They built the houses and mended the streets,

They harvested food that everyone eats.

Yet laws are signed with heavy pens,

Casting them out like wind through dens.

No thought for love, no thought for ties,

Just papers tossed and hopeful cries.

The children watch with tear-stained eyes;

Their parents are gone, their futures dry.

Who tucks them in? Who holds them tight?

Who tells them, "It will be all right"?

They paid their dues; they worked so hard,

Yet still, they're cast from fields and yards.

Who picks the fruit? Who builds the homes?

Who keeps the wheels that turn and roam?

The ones who stay, who shut their eyes,

Who scoff and jeer and spread their lies—

Will they now toil from dawn to night?

Will they bend low and do it right?

A great country is built by hand—

By those who dream in foreign lands.

But walls go up, and hearts grow cold,

And justice bends to lies retold.

So when the harvests go unmade,

And cities crumble, dreams will fade.

Those who built were sent away,

And children weep where once they played.