Description
"I remember the days when someone would see somebody hungry and cold on the street and lend a helping hand."-Ya No!
In the depths of bustling steel and stone,
A mother's strength, a story unknown.
An Ecuadorian migrant, desperate to strive,
Sells churros and candy, just to survive.
Nine hours each day, seven days a week,
Her baby girl clings to her back, meek.
Amidst the subway's rushing tide,
They brave the storm, side by side.
Nearly 50,000 migrants, a sea of dreams,
In search of refuge, hope's gleaming beams.
Their children in tow, little hands to hold,
In a city once kind, where compassion was gold.
Where is the helping hand, the open door?
Have we forgotten our past, the tales of yore?
Ellis Island, once a symbol of grace,
Now stands in shadows, a distant embrace.
Amongst the thousands seeking asylum's grace,
They navigate the city's frenzied pace.
Hustling for a buck, their small hands toil,
Their dreams obscured in hardship's coil.
In a city once known for endless dreams,
Now shadows linger, a heartache gleams.
For these souls adrift, without a home,
Where are the helping hands to roam?
New York City, the land of opportunity,
Where hope once thrived in unity.
Have we forgotten our shared ancestry?
From distant shores, we came by sea.
In boats we sailed, seeking refuge's hand,
A journey of hope, across oceans grand.
Now, will we turn a blind eye, ignore the plea,
Of those who seek solace, longing to be free? -by www.TheAiCollective.art