The TV spokesman narrates the tale
of the triumph of a murderous outcry.
The knife of the border-crossing man
pierced the heart of the little girl
who played alone in the yard.

​

The graphs on the screen climb:
malignant red that devours;
thermometer of feverish aversion;
syringe of civilization bleeding out.

​

An activist pounds the desk
while images of tents under bridges
appear behind her.
He argues that sending them back
is not racism, it is common sense.

​

A politician who has been photographed
posing before the grave
of the daughter who will never wake,
rises and declares:
Multiculturalism has failed.
They accuse us of plundering
everything they had of value.
I refute this.
We left them rails that cut through jungles,
factories where they once stacked mud,
grammar to tame savage tongues,

photographs without mirrors,
and the gospel, a ladder toward the Redeemer.
We left them too much.
And now they come for what remains of ours.
To wish to comb the jungle is a vast nobility,
but not every animal can be domesticated.
That is why it is vital that we wall ourselves in.
Lest these people turn us into a country
like the one they are invading from;
where the daily bread is the chaos of loss.