spring
will come, 
and no longer 
will I be considered
a burden to the state.
The genesis of an immigrant in
europe began when my ancestors were told
they would be free, but we were lied to.
The generations who followed my ancestors have been
crossing enemy lines, clawing through borders as we hold our
papers high. The heavens hear our cries, as we push 
our lives towards case officers who peer through every aspect of our existence.
We cannot become burdens to the state; it is written in the papers
they give us. No longer are we allowed to share our light; we signed
our lives away - we are now bound slaves, to a state which can evict you
without any notice. I am a slave in this emerald isle, my head hangs
low, like those of my ancestors whose hands were bound and forced to
work for the colonisers. The machine keeps churning, and I am 
a spoke on one of hundreds of thousands of wheels which carry
the state on their backs. It’s lonely, but we are surrounded 
by similar brothers and sisters in silence,
churning the same machine. We are not       
burdens to the state; we are your builders, 
the creators, until we can no longer 
breathe. We will die 
before they call
us a burden
to your
state.

Imasha Costa is a young Sri Lankan poet and journalist. She has had work published in Poetry Ireland Review, Cork Words and the Quarryman

Poetry submissions to thursdaypoems@gmail.com