Foreign by John William Brown

We all are migrants. We are all refugees.
Departure is both a welcome and a goodbye.
It later breaks the heart with memories.
It burdens one with nostalgia for the new;
the new that seems, to never quite arrive.
We hold to passing things as if they’re ours:
this transient space, our place within the queue,
our precious time with all its hurried hours.

We claim our rights, by how long we have been here;
the time that passed since our ancestors arrived:
the blur of memory, reformed, recalled quite clear.
The world may remain borderless, yet we claim we
have been here longer than any other kind;
and though there never was a place called home,
we make up sacred law books to decree
that God, not Might, gave us the right to own.

We kill and maim and then we desecrate
this temple Earth that’s merely here on loan;
a temporary stay: a wilderness we create
when we could make it sacred, whole and free.
These words may seem naïve, yet we are thrown
into this world and, being here, we need be more
familiar. And in that instil a – certain humanity.
If not. We must remain – foreign and – unsure.

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