Voyagers by Matthew Smith

I am not a silent poet

People, packed tight into the backs of lorries
like tinned sardines.
When we see them washing up on the shore
we remark that they were
‘Simply returning to the sea.’
That’s where they belong,
not breathing our air, breathing our waters,
there’s room down there
we can spare a whole corner of Atlantis,
but not one square metre of our Zion,
our promised land was promised to us,
it’s never been a melting pot,
even if it looks distinctly like a cauldron
if we add anything more
it will be boiling over.

We don’t care if you’re dying on our doorstep,
just don’t get blood on the welcome mat,
the “welcome” isn’t for you,
it’s for the privileged few.
Only people with capital
are allowed in our capital
that’s why the housing market is in “boom,”
gentrified neighbourhoods,
prices through the roof,
we barely allow our own to live here,

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