A poem about an old Cantonese gold miner in the Otago gold rush
Is this shack my home?
This stone cottage?
Pieced together with my own bare hands
with the sack overhead?
Flipping and flapping, attempting to fly away.
Perched delicately on the mountainside.
Is this shack my home?
This icy shelter?
Surrounded by a raging blizzard
with the wind howling?
Squealing like a banshee trying to get in.
Leaving my hands numb and teeth chattering.
Is this shack my home?
This prison centre?
I can feel the discrimination.
With the white gaol guards?
Striving to strip me of my heritage.
Creating disharmony and chaos.
Is this shack my home?
This impoverished hut?
Filled only with the simple necessities.
With such little food?
My stomach grumbles for hours.
Oh, what has become of my savings?
Is this shack my home?
This remote cabin?
Across many a sea
with no connection?
Guangzhou feels lost forever.
Will I ever see the smiling faces again?
Is this shack my home?
This cosy establishment?
I am met with breathtaking views.
With my glistening pile?
It twinkles in the firelight and the riverbed.
This is my home now.