Memories of an immigrant

He calls this August In the morning between trees and metal, The ground is shaking as he laughs, He is almost there upon the orange trees over my country, Down where little speak English, And my home is upon bright sands between our fingers that Pull tomorrow back to the time where mothers are left behind Beneath nights of fear and nights of thick walls where people Apologized constantly, (and forgot how to speak). We walk through the city where the blood will breathe And cover the summer sky, I watch the highway bring shades of black to days of bright sunlight, And for a moment I look back as the country is whispering, Reminding me of the sun upon my head, Of the moment when our children began to speak, The night when we trembled and were afraid. The night we kept quiet when we wanted to scream. I stand once again to watch the evening, And I am thankful upon the city of metal and concrete, Thankful to have a better wage, Even when no one holds me, Yes, I am thankful... But it's still not my home.