Home
A
place that is all the more unrecognisable now
And where poor migrants arrive in the middle
of the night
Deposited
outside former hotels and country manors
Outnumbering
certain townsfolk that wake up uncomfortably to them.
A
place where the streets of the capital are littered
With
tents of the homeless set up outside government buildings
And
where the guards police with their hands in their pockets
When they not are called out by the government to arrest peaceful protesters
Who
are merely trying to assert their most basic human rights.
Home,
a place where the leaders are now spoken of as "Elites"
As
they are now so mistrusted for once elected they are merely full of deceit.
Home,
a place which I don’t recognise any more
Where
everyone’s a poet, being equal and all,
But
somehow I don’t bleedin’ buy any of it.
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