OF HATE AND FOG

I have travelled miles
I am scorched,
hungry, tired
and bruised,
Outwardly, 
more inwardly
But that you won't see
I have laboured years
to deserve these tears? 
The borders I cross
I am hosed by the host
My bare soles are toast
I am treated like fungal moss
Is this my motherland
I ask? 
Am I an outcaste?
Why  then do I stand last? 
Ostricised, criticised
Labouring like a dog
I journey on
Despite the hate in the fog

arthur b cardozo