27 October
A balcony, a pool on reclaimed land
An empty golf course, Russians, Speedos. Breeze-
I taste construction dust - or is it sand
From desert's bleached interior blown to sea?
An ugly land, quick-built for profit, fake
And sad, with workers barely scraping by
To live here is to serve crude masters, take
Their scraps while cringing under dust-choked sky.
But while I'd turn down work in this dry place
Of greed and coarseness, profiteers and snakes
I must be honest with myself and face
That as an immigrant I've had to make
A bargain different only in degree-
To give up home, to trust hosts unlike me.
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