It is poetry too when you raise your voice to support

Displaced, wounded, emigrants,

Hurt without committing any crime,

Those people of villages and country side,

Who do not know what is boundary,

They cross through mud, and water

In search of two end’s meal,

Sometimes electrocuted and shot at border line

Some are traded by clever businessmen as labourers,

In lieu of their ancestor’s jewellery and home,

Displaced and cheated by the people,

They once called their own.

They reach at places seemingly rich,

They have everything, but burdened with loan.

It is no surprise if they return the boats,

Filled with cheated and wounded hearts,

Here the pathetic journey starts.

It is poetical to give them shelter,

And a hope for a future home.