How did I become a child born in the land and be not a daughter of the land?
If I stay in the camp I see my dreams trade for a loss and frustrations grow in my head like forest moss
If I take the road up north, toward the shrubs of bura to the place my mum and dad once called home to the place before we were before we were called refugees which is wiser? stick here or to take the jump and lose all bones in one blow?
 If I hit the road down toward the big city

Misery would descend upon me like hail I have no  kipande to prove that I myself no road down west where the cool breeze blow my refugees status chains me within these fences
When I tune to the radio war grabs the headline reports of peace conferences marred by violence no concord in the motherland and no sleep anymore in this land I was born
 Who is going to lend an ear? Who is going to listen?
What is worse, to shelter in the lack and debris of my country, or to lie under the shelter of futile pursuits and no dreams at night?
 I know that if every glimmer of hope is shattered,
 I shall get back home
 But if the only way is out!
Let the out retain in us some litter pride? Who is going to listen

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *