Back in Pata, in my bed,
I listen to the
Tip … tap … tip…
On the old house tin roof.
Every night I listen to these sounds.
Sometimes when raining is too much,
the
tip … tap … tip…
fall on my head, nose, cheek,
tongue.
Fresh clean water in my mouth,
falling from our sky,
which is better than the muck water that
fall from our filth tap.
The toughest of times.
Winter hurt our bones.
Summer hurt our skins.
No money hurt our bellies.
Tata say political man
not give a shit about us.
They give:
no road,
no light,
no house.
Mămică say they treat us
like the world’s disease.
They take:
our land,
our dignity,
our choice.
Here is decent good.
But sometimes,
when I look from window
or
go for long street walk,
I see something same between
old village then
and
new place now.
Many peoples with much miserable in their heart,
many peoples with little monies,
all walking
up down
down up
stopping
starting
again
again,
smoking in huddle group
and
chatting in small circle.
Everyone watching everyone do same things.
Peoples with no place to go for laughing and be happy.
Same as my old village.
The atmospheres, buildings and peoples
in London North
is like giant rainbow.
But
not beautiful colours
with golden treasure at end.
Is the rainbow with
white to grey to brown to black.
Sometime when I walking past
high sky houses,
I thinking that maybe some
politician take also:
land,
dignity,
choice
of these London North souls.