Those that live in foreign lands
But never really left their home
Whose hearts never cup the sands
Upon which their reluctant feet roam
And the prints made where each boot stands
Will be washed away by the evening foam
Of a suspicious tide that never understands
The ripened fruits of an alien-like biome - -
Ye shall go back home with empty hands
To a strange land that is no longer home.

Che Chidi Chukwumerije
Poems from the inner river