There was no way they could understand.
What it’s like to walk down a road
And see a simple sea of white
Like surf and I’m just like
A bit of seaweed maybe,
Caught up in it all.
Accidental, I suppose.
If I dropped them in a foreign land
Perhaps they’d know.
But they could always retrace their
And find home.
But I have no countrymen.
And they will croon:
But your skin is golden
And your eyes are…unique
And your hair curls wonderfully.
It’s almost patronising.
And I wonder if when they say
They can’t meet today
There’s no jobs available
Or the shopkeeper’s sharp with me
Is it my imagination?
Their methods are subtlety.
I want to break the silence with
This is the colour of my skin!
These are the syllables of my name!
These are the bows of my lips and my legs!
I’m keeping them.
I know the ways of the tides from my forefathers.
But I can’t tell you what they did in the Great Wars.