On the honeyed sands of Bodrum’s where the tourists with their children swim and play

It’s a place of fun and laughter where Westerners enjoy their holiday

And the hotels on the shoreline raise the many different European flags

But no-one used the beach the day they found a single, sodden pile of rags.

That day would drain humanity of decency and spirit and of joy

For the sodden pile of rags turned out to be a tiny Kurdish boy.

The West looked on the picture of the boy and from the platform of its wealth

And in the image of the boy it saw the ugly image of itself.

We all began to weep our salty tears for the little boy that day

And wrung our hands in grief but on the morrow stowed our grief and tears away.

And once again the honeyed sands are where the tourists and their children swim and play

It’s a place of fun and laughter where the Westerners enjoy their holiday