Thousand
upon thousand
upon thousand
of photographs
of houses
snatched by offficials
who just don’t know...
some mansions,
warm,
and pretty,
and smiling,
with colourful gardens,
and dogs
and cats,
some hovels,
and cold,
and leaking,
but every single one
of them
is
a home,
with a family
with people
who are
happy,
or sad,
or rich,
or poor,
or dysfunctional,
serene,
or frantic,
or antagonistic,
or brave,
or honourable,
or criminal,
but members of a family,
or what is left of a family
and I revere
and honour
every
single
house
and every single
person in it.
(24 July 2009)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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