The Immigrant’s Tale
I am a descendant of the Mother of Exiles:
An immigrant of weavers whose roots from
The Old Heartland saw the world as a loom
And used the imagination to be one’s destiny.
Most seafaring dreamers were purged
By vicious monarchs who treated us
Like slaves, putrid cheese, or thieves.
We were the mules and wetbacks chained
To cruel machines that catered to
An abyss of the ultra-rich and vile!
We were born in painful debt and
Wealth was an alluring mistress.
We were carried by an enormous wind of
Adventure, grit, and risks. We clung to
Hope to survive the storms of humble
Beginnings. I am that hungry refugee
Walking among the shadows – that
Street vendor with a heavy load of
Humor and cosmic irony bearing
Witness to the moronic hatred and
Privilege fears of the unknown.
We are still a labor of love in progress.