They arrive wearing colours that fracture

the arrogance of monochrome certainty,

with tongues rich with elsewhere,

each new person with roots cracking the

concrete foundations of sameness.

 

What the border-guardians call cacophony is

but music in keys their ears forgot to hear,

rhythms the blood remembers from before the

fences taught us fear and then rejection.

 

These newcomers don’t dilute they concentrate,

distil, ferment the culture into something bubbling

and alive enough to change,

rich enough to flavour nostalgia’s thin gruel

to make it a culinary celebration.

 

They bring the future in their suitcases,

spilling colour into the greyscale dream of purity,

proving again that monoculture is another word for death,

that stagnant pools bring stench,

while the vast flowing river of life,

holding contradiction, pain, pleasure,

and surprise together,

fed by tributaries,

carries us all forward toward an ocean vast enough

to hold every story, every wound, every song,

every taste we didn’t know we needed

until it arrives as a gift at our door.

 

10/1/2026