We left the lands that gave us birth
And chose to cross the seas.
And providence or choice decreed
The place, where we would cease.
And loneliness is now our lot,
But why should we complain?
We chose to leave our friends and kin.
What's left to then explain?
For many, work is all we have.
It keeps us occupied.
But often, it consumes our lives.
All else is nullified.
A few find satisfaction
In the work they do.
And others, seeking traction,
Find that's lacking too.
And when the working life's at end,
The vacuum then awaits.
No village there, nor neighborhood,
But walls that hold in place.
It's said, his home's a castle to
The Englishman – but then
It also is a prison, where
The Briton finds his end.
And so it is, in North and West –
And even, now, in East.
If misery loves company,
There's solace there, at least!
2013 March 23rd, Sat. evening