Londonistan this
Othered I's
Home earth
To die in the land
'laid to rest'
But torn away here
How shallow are
The roots of understanding

As if powdered with their names
Gutturals I strove to utter
Ripening like a bed of fruit

I don't defend the process
Ashes that float across
This soft-voiced alien narrative
Dying in history's echo

Here they are in the post office
As if queuing at the end of empire

Outside, a new kind of
                       facade is proposed
Silent alternative
                          layers of ash
Arrival, as if you are
                       worshipping thresholds
As if signing, the
                         dust with our names