poem #8 (2)

 ... 

People could not live, 

People could not die, 

Everything people knew was a lie. 

Those who wanted more, 

met on the sly. 

Away from the government's prying eyes. 

From these struggles I felt distant, 

Of acknowledging their issues I was resistant. 

In the city I call home, 

I was alone. 

That afternoon in mid May came and went, 

And that night I was to be sent, 

Away to the comfort of the West. 

'Everything is for the best'. 

That's what I was told,

on my way to leave the city, 

Yet there was a part of me, 

that didn't want to leave. 

On the way to the airport that night, 

the city had transformed into one of light. 

I saw fires of defiance in the slums, 

And ferocity in the streets. 

This resistance felt so sweet. 

However, 

their battle was not mine to fight. 

In my city, 

I sat in a large house, 

Air conditioned with windows, 

With a functioning fridge, 

And a working gas stove. 

This was not my battle, 

yet something in me was not settled, 

as I left this city. 

I saw the airport gate, 

And a part of me felt the urge to hesitate. 

In the weeks that followed, 

I yearned for my city, 

the one by the sea. 

I knew that one day I would return, 

To my city of light, 

Where I would fight, 

for those rights, 

of which so many were deprived. 

I would fight not just for myself, 

but for my city, 

The city that I did but pity.