Dear Brother,
I was never convinced by the great American dream,
not when you praised its cities,
or the lights tracing the mazes of its highways.
It wasn't disdain for the West--
Just a resistance to the rankings,
one nation cast above another,
one colour over the next.
As if caste, creed and coin were scales
to measure worth.
Who decides what stands above?
Superiority, a mask worn by insecurity,
but I digress.
When you told me of their citizenship offer,
then chose to come home,
not out of need, but a want,
I felt a sense of gratitude,
and made a silent prayer.
When you asked me, Did I make the right decision?
My answer came without pause,
Of course, yes.
You chased the Mirage, conquered it,
Then returned, free of haze.
Yet today, I watch our soil change,
Leaders dividing, never building,
sharpening words for war, turning truth to dust.
Bigotry and whataboutery, stoking fires—
an opium for those lost to the pillars
crumbling around them: work, shelter, security.
Religion floods laws, loudspeakers,
billboards and arguments,
filling every empty space but the one
place it belongs: the heart.
And now, Brother, as this homeland shifts,
I wonder, had my words been quieter,
would the silence have spoken truer?
For you returned to a soil where
the values of faith, love and belief
are spoken louder than they're lived.
Far into the present,
I find myself grappling with what to say,
But
I wish I were voiceless that day.
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