the view

they dare not touch

the gleaming windows

of the madam’s big car

the sluggish movement of traffic

a window to grant an audience

they dare not touch

the gleaming windows

but their eyes

their eyes stick onto the glass

like a banner that shouts

‘we are the view’

what did you think you’d see

when you made your way

across the ocean to this land?

we are no lush mountains

we are no cultural ornaments

you’d like to buy at the market

we are the view

we are the image that you’ll forget

as soon as you lay your table

at home, that you’ve made in our home

and you’ll forget the view

of us, the posters, not postcards

with dry tongues and dead eyes

empty bellies

rumbling and begging

hands outstretched, palms brittle

we are the view

we are the dearth, we are the death

“this dirty land”, your blue eyes say