By Ashish Gurung
His parents hid their history from him,
Every sound of neighbors’ gossip.
Nobody even knew what to say.
His heart perceived nothing day to day.
He hates who he is,
The putrid smells of hell to come.
They called him “immigrant.”
In spite of pain, be like the cactus.
The rhythm of our souls.
Fighting for our lives, our country, future, and everything we stand for.
Oh God, I pray that someday every race may stand on equal plane.
His parents hid their history from him,
Every sound of neighbors’ gossip.
Nobody even knew what to say.
His heart perceived nothing day to day.
He hates who he is,
The putrid smells of hell to come.
They called him “immigrant.”
In spite of pain, be like the cactus.
The rhythm of our souls.
Fighting for our lives, our country, future, and everything we stand for.
Oh God, I pray that someday every race may stand on equal plane.
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