In That Foreign Land
amidst the crowd
there are only two of you
speaking
your own language and
you walk with them
and your feet are tired
and there is no
talking, as though
both of you are stranded
in an island
where monkeys and birds
only exist
and then you dream of home
and you even promise
that your enemies are
much better than them
because at least
you can do a lot of
talking and shouting
and quarreling and that
in such actions, at least,
you have a world of sounds
that you can
take with you and understand
and preoccupy with
when the night comes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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