We are not loud. Our women dress in
Their hair tight and decorous, some
We should be ugly or presumptuous,
if it were true
What they say of us. But our dignity
Was not bought, we never connived
like upstart princes
For an empire, whose guest we are.
They fenced us here, untitled, contraband.
What we are, we earned.
Our seven-branched candlestick lies in mud
Of the river by whose banks we pray.
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