By Iain Muir
I had a home, once.
Every day was glorious.
The sun shone, the winds blew cool.
In my home, before it fell.
God's own land, it was,
Blessed with wealth below and above the ground.
No matter the problem, we could "make a plan".
Now crops lie in ashes, and we bury our dead,
To feed the greed of just one man.

Far from my home I sit
And grieve for the life I knew.
I worry for those I've left behind:
Friends, kin, strangers of my kind.
An "enemy of the state" am I?
To want a better life for all?
Farewell, my home, and the life I lead.
I feel like a coward, who's turned and fled.

Now I must live in these cold, hard lands,
Amongst a people who don't speak my tongue,
And dream of a time that probably never was
When I was welcome in my own homeland.
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