My geography does not match yours, surrounded by the bay
And the city so close by you can see it from the hill of Island.
I am at the middle of an ancient sea, raised up out of water
To make a dusty land of red and pink rock, yellow cliffs,
and snow peaks
far from the Great Ocean you crossed from your home villages.
But we spend our days alike—gazing at bare walls,
Composing poems to carve on them, bedding down at night
To the whistling of wind through bars and barracks.
When the moon shines and insects chirp under our bunks,
Grief and bitterness wrap around us like cold, winding sheets,
And we rage against the whites and the promises
This land made to us it would be a heaven of gold mountains.
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