It’s not so far away they say,
the ones who stay. Their handkerchieves,
surrender flags, that wave me off
or shoe me away?
Though shops and cars are still the same,
the little things, like milk and bread;
radio hosts, voices and police cars
Even the smell of this new place,
yes even the smell, if you can believe it,
is different. I wonder: do I look different?
Though my race is the same.
I try to fit in and make my hellos
to frightening new faces. And then
they smile too, though I am still different.
I just carry on.
What if I die here? In a different land
from my father and his, were we all lay
for generations. But it’s all just land
and we are just dust.
Yes, what if I die here? Well?
What about it. We are dust
and it is land. Nobody owns it.
Not really, do they?
But it’s easy for me for so many reasons;
I am not running and I look the same.
Others, different and scared, have no way out because
this is their home now.
Spare a thought for all of them;
you don’t know their circumstances.
And ask yourself “what does it matter? ”
It’s all just land that we end up under.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.