Muffled Voices

It isn't the voice of the dead,
But that of an even more pathetic breed.
No, it isn't coming from Mars,
Nor from your favourite stars.

They are much near to us,
Rather too uncomfortably near.

They accompany an outstretched hand,
As silently pleading yearning eyes,
In that feeble voice,
Is it a child, a woman or a man?
Refugee, Immigrant, or someone just displaced?

They are much near to us,
Rather too uncomfortably near.