The heart, that other place, its people, ever since the war,
whole continents adrift; rain falling, ash and dark: all
borders distant or forgotten, all passports burned, all leave
abruptly cancelled, all rumours true; and how small it is,
you know, that place, and so little cared for: its children
stolen, its people subjugate; and now so few, let me say, with
everywhere strangers on the move; and yet despite it all,
despite the hunger and the summary injustices, despite the
stones I threw, still they came on, wherever I went, those
ones remaining, hands lifted and empty, still they came after
me and they asked – imagine this – they asked for you.

John Glenday


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