I'm no pilgrim. There's nowhere to which I feel compelled to go.
I've learned what I set out to know. I am not a refugee. No wars,
No hateful human acts, expell me from my placid home, but I am
Not someone at peace. Like gales or hurricanes, a host of lethal
Wrongs roar overhead. My money has been taken from me to
Expunge ten thousand lives. It steers the poor from doctors'
Doors to jails, while buying lovely meals, and splendid homes
And clothes for undeserving, ugly men and women. People work
And go home hungry, all their labor's earnings turned to profits
For the propertied, and, then, of course, real refugees!
The pushed away, the beaten, broken, cursed, expelled. Why
Can't these people who could bring so much to places they
Have come be welcomed? Sadly, they are not. Since they
Suffer, as do countless, undeserving others, I, in comfort,
Offer some assistance, but it's not enough. This is why
I cannot be at peace.