An Immigrant's Island

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The blue hue of the ocean everywhere I turn,
One boat, over 500 people.
Toddlers, Mothers, Fathers, Teenagers, babies,
All crossing the arch, from the magnificent boat to the wooden dock into the blinding sunlight.

Feet pounding on the pavement,
The food carts aromas making me stop my aching feet to catch a whiff.
The sparkling stones of the footpath,
The blind brightness from the sun,
And the dimmed shadows everywhere make me nostalgic for my childhood.

The green lawn filled with picnic clothes, baskets, and couples holding hands.
The people hurrying, talking loudly,
The babies crying, the children screaming,
The boat’s motors, the oceans breeze,
And echoes fill every corner, room, place.

When our immigrants stepped out of the boat in 1918?
Where they terrified of the size of the island, even though it wasn't that big to me?
What about getting into the US?

I see everything from my view on top of boat,
Feeling timorous, awed, attentive, and excited at the same time,
I hopped of the boat and into the waiting dock,
Wondering if the island was this busy just like in the old days,

Never a silent moment to be found.
The bustle and hustle,
The bustle and hustle,
The bustle and hustle.

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