Of this Island

We were bound, secure,
tied to that wooden mast,
one made of good timber

imported from foreign states
across the Baltic Sea,

but then shipwrecked by others,
those more cunning sailors,
singers of the siren song,

those who pulled at the wheel
steering us towards hate
and lamentations,

those beef-witted blue jackets
who, even now, fly lies
like flags, their uniform message:

You are running into danger,
that refrain as they take
us to our dishonourable exile.

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