Refugees to Welfare (The Migrant’s Story)

australia 2

The dry eye, like the parched outback,
And a salty tongue,
And a Freemantle Doctor,
That abets the refugees.
The wind with a stethoscope
And the noise of a cheering heart,
Palpitating like mad,
How a seasick heart raptures,
At the first sight of land.
A doctor that hears your accelerating
Heartbeat and slowly bring
You to a lonely beach,
The morphine moments,
When you realize, this could be home.

The weatherboard houses
They have seen on TV,
And how they weathered time
To be here. The land of
Those funny marsupials,
The kicking kangaroos,
And the spiny anteaters. A land
That coerces the stranger,
To embrace a melting point.
The crucible of land,
The human elements that alloy,
The dreams that once were on sails,
Now like a eucalyptus tree,
In a landscape that homogenizes.

The mates we all become overnight,
How in this land, you become
Invisible; no caste, no race,
No religion, no paint on skin,
A land where white vans,
Are immaculate, the blue collars
That hoist houses. What becomes
A home, the day, you step inside,
Wiping your feet on a carpet,
Wiping out another country,
And still stealthily prying on nostalgia
Like most migrants do.

The places that we hide,
And the places that we cannot hide from,
How we format our memories,
To build new sandcastles,
Knowing the tide will never again
Be that big or forceful as to break us,
The security of a new country,
Holding below you a safety net,
For each time you fall.

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