I can breathe

Let the war of the third world
be against corruption, manipulation
against the slave trade of sorts
in the name of immigration.
Let the war of the third world
be against injustice, murder,
caprice, and torture;
the war of the third world
is not the third world war.

The same brain-drained workforce
works wonders in the first world,
they beautify the streets, paint the walls
they nurture, safeguard all possible resource;
as daily wage earners, they are these miners,
world-class scientists, engineers, and doctors.

They’re unconscious of their sins,
they’re busy making the first world richer,
while their lands, the poor cousins,
lie neglected, year after year.

Is a comfortable lifestyle everything?
To their motherlands, do they owe nothing?
Look at those clever people of the first world,
they make them do the donkey’s work,
they hire them, lure them, 
cage them with lofty payment,
yet, they remain forever
an immigrant, a foreigner.

Off now from the lazy comfort zone
let them stop working
for the first world anymore
it’s never their orbit,
always a strange ambit,
it was never their own.

All singers, poets, leaders
of their color and skin
had asked them to fight
for their right, so they win,
but over the years, again and again
their efforts went in vain.

This poem is now planting a thought;
asking them to think, to regain what’s lost,
and go back to where they truly belong
where they can write a fresh new song.
.........

Ye men, women, and children,
you can’t breathe here,
isn’t that evident?

Do something insane to save
the soil where you were born,
be selfless, unafraid, and brave,
your soil is where
the seed needs to be sown.

Found an organization that
immediately stops immigration,
that resurrects the third world
into its whole new avatar,
where a smiling heaven
falls in love with the golden garden,
where sing birds of various colors,
where bloom flowers and fruits
of different, and varied nature,
where the streets are as clean
homes with lawns are just as green
where businesses flourish,
industries grow just as they do
in this affluent first world,
where comforts and amenities
are not merely foreign words.

In your own stage,
you'll never be an immigrant
you'll not be in exile anymore,
like the terrible years of the yore;
in your own world,
you'll have a paradise above,
and a kingdom beneath
where, with feet on the ground
you can shout aloud and say,
'I can breathe, I can breathe'.