I'm in England,
and, in some other part
of the world, you are too.
Our journey's been long,
and we move the sky with us
like the people of old.
Across green fields,
red brick houses
and old factories.
Far beyond the sadness in the
face of somebody you
see everyday in the bus
- a sadness you can relate to,
because you are
the same, after all,
but can't explain (and what
would be the point?).
Leaving behind green lakes
and desolated mountains
and tiny villages,
there is a place
someone like us
once called home.
It might be a small house,
sorrounded by trees,
or maybe a bright flat
where children once laughed.
We follow in the footsteps
of a thousand nations.
That's why when we leave,
we'll be back, and when leaving again,
we'll still be here.
Is this country a refuge in the night
where we sleep until the morning
of our lives, or the embodiment
of the unattainable?
We keep moving forward,
and I'm blinded by the lights
- but I embrace it.
This is me now.
Being an inmigrant in the UK is an ongoing process.
