They call me almajiri, the migrant.
To people I'm nothing important.
For days I do not have a shower.
From the civilised I do nothing but cower.
I move with my fellow migrants begging,
Not aware we are just bootlegging.
At the age of six I am virtually sold
"This holy man is your teacher", I'm told.
We are numerous, all children of innocence
Living a life under cruel sentence.
We are taught meaningless words
By mullahs wearing long beards.
I envy those children in English schools,
But our mullah says they're all fools
Because when they die they'll go to hell
Where forever and ever they will dwell.
But I ask myself even at my age
Why does God give them advantage.
We starve when they always eat.
We're sick while they're always fit.
We scramble for left-overs like flies
Hovering over something that dies.
To the rich we give our genuflections
They use us when they lose elections.
At a tender age I'm taught how to kill
And I'm told I'm only doing God's will.
In private I always sit down and cry.
I cannot understand even when I try
Why my parents would sell me away
To face such hardship day by day.