Kwassa Kwassa

Expatriate, exiled, they stand between
their past and someone else’s present, lost
in wrung emotions. They must pay the cost
of all those clashing cultures that have been
their start and their completion and they’ve seen
their share of disillusion – they have crossed
too many roads, too often they’ve been tossed
on waves of trade winds to be free from spleen.
Their faces beaming now, intent and dressed
up to the nines they watch the show unfold
and, trancelike, dance to songs that show how nice
life was back home – tonight they feel their best
but they’re half-starved upon a world too cold:
a square meal twice a year will not suffice.