i.
sometimes, only sometimes
i find myself
wishing to be back
in the country of my birth

she calls me
for there is work to be
done, and lives
to be repaired.

ii.
in august, the rain
flits on open markets
and i can smell the flowers
seated idly
on black silk hair
and the air of being alive
and of being gelled with
other lives
sings through me.

iii.
sometimes when i look
at the bangles my mother
owns,
i see children in factories
and glass furnaces
building and sewing
and making,
imprinting the colours of my country
on tracks of culture.

20 m i l l i o n
thats how many i didn't count
when i see their tiny
faces sinking in my mind

x2
for the number of bruised hands
x2
and eyes becoming blind.

iv.
i thought maybe
we were like them,
but i see now,
we are nothing
but fate's good hand
and them, children of god
nesting under the sullen valleys
that burnt away their childhood
and skimmed them off,
packaged,
into adulthood.