No sooner had one come down
Than he began building again.
My bricks, O my genuine bricks
Made of my genuine blood!
What would we be without borders?
So which one are you? he said
And stuck out his hand to me.
Birth certificate? Passport?
Which side are you on, which side?
Merrily he unrolled
Starry dendrons of wire
To give his wall ears and eyes.
Qualifications? he said.
Residence permit? Tattoo?
Which colour are you, which colour?
No colour, he said, no good.
He took my only passport,
He slammed it down on the wire.
My hand, O my genuine hand!
This is a border, he said.
A border likes blood. Which side’s
Your bloody hand on, which side?