A symphony for my distant kin,  

tethered by lineage, culture, and skin.  

I bear the legacy of both Australian and Indonesian shores,  

Yet must my identity be a battle, a series of unending wars?  

Born under the vast expanse where southern constellations lie, 

 Yet, when I wear my Aussie pride, sceptics raise an eyebrow, question “Why?”  

“Your hue tells tales of an eastern sun,” they declare,  

But is identity not more than skin, deeper, rare?  

I stand on firm ground, with history's embrace,  

While countless souls float, lost in the vast space.  

Seeking refuge, a place to call their own,  

Yet met with walls, hearts turned to stone.  

Migrants, their aspirations as vast as the skies,  

Yet so often met with cold, indifferent eyes.  

Their stories, their dreams, often left untold,  

Is it their unfamiliar tongue, or a history we've been sold?  

Why must a voice, from distant lands so far,  

Be silenced, dimmed, like a fading star?  

While my rights stand unyielding, like an ancient oak tree,  

Why are theirs snuffed out, like a flame lost at sea?  

Does the soil of my first cry determine my tale?  

Or is it my actions, my dreams, my trail?  

If birthplace is the anchor, the determiner of worth,  

Then humanity's compass is lost, astray from its hearth.  

For if lines drawn by men dictate our human plight,  

Then we've strayed far from the path of light.  

To the rulers, the ones atop the mighty spire,  

Can you not hear the world's collective choir?  

For if our origins carve the path of our days,  

Let the annals of time remember these ways.  

Like the souls trapped in Guantanamo's cold embrace,  

Their stories, their lives, seemingly misplaced.  

Yet, from these depths, a resilient voice does rise,  

Challenging the mighty, under the watchful skies.  

“No American am I,” resounds Abu Zubaydah's refrain,  

Yet isn't his struggle, his pain, humanity's own chain?  

Though my passport bears symbols of power and might,  

At its threshold, my identity faces a relentless fight.  

Branded a barbarian, an outsider, a ghost of the past,  

Yet, isn't that label a reflection, a shadow we've cast?  

For in history's dance, roles often interchange,  

Today's empire, tomorrow's ruins, such is time's range.  

Are we not all barbarians, in some forgotten lore?  

With history's quill, the victors keeping score.  

To the vast cosmos, my plea does soar,  

Will there be a time when we yearn for borders no more?  

For those without the shield of the heralded blue,  

Will they find solace, a world welcoming and true?  

If my birth nation is my eternal decree,  

Then perhaps amidst the boundless waves is where I should be.