Folded papers in boxes changing lives forever
And a country’s future
I’m tired of your clowns in black and white suits dictating our
Those yellow faces and yellow hair cheering up to
Boris Johnson and his “get Brexit done” can go to Hell
Let me remind you that some voted yesterday for a man who referred to Africa as “that country”
For a man who doesn’t and will never speak up for the people
Yet a majority voted for him.
Explain it to me. Explain it to me, when I just wanted
To Go Home.
Folded papers held by people for who their comfort and privileges are the only things that matter
Swallowing the media’s amount of stupidity served to us like cheap sweet chocolate cake.
Oh, how flavorous is immigration control
When you’ll never face any difficulty yourself
All I wanted was to Go Home
Some people’s privileges and ignorance that shut them from the truth of the world we live in make me sick the same way those yellowish faces shaking hands proudly do.
Immigration is something most empathise with, but when it touches you personally, it’s awfully scary. Yet, it isn’t for me a matter of life or death as it can be to entire populations living in countries in war. For them, immigration is like swimming through the deepest and darkest oceans when for me it’s like walking over it on a thick yet unstable rope. I live in one of the best countries in the world. I am French. And safe. And white.
Also, I am now happy in France. I met wonderful people, spent time with my best friends again and I keep creating my opportunities wherever I go. I know now without a doubt that I do not need any country, any permission, or anyone to keep on shaking things to their foundations. Although my decision was taken: I want to move to the UK and build a life there. Freely. So when I saw the elections’ results this morning, everything stopped around me.
Tears burning. Anger digging.
I then said words that naturally came out in English: “Let me just go home.”
A majority voted for those clowns. Yellow dudes shaking hands proudly.
But hey, Tories, see our indignation rise. Our anger strike.
I don’t care about the obstacles on my way, I’ll walk over it.
I’ll probably stumble, get hurt, and jump from one incertitude to another
But I’ll walk towards my goal anyway.
I remember my best friend telling me by a windy November day: “You run fast. You’re the fastest of the wolf pack.”
Now watch the wolves bite back. Because the question is not who is going to let us, the question is who is going to stop us.
Let me go back to my second home. And stay.
I’ll go back to my second home. And stay.
Or burn some.