A NOTE ON BECOMING A FOREIGNER

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In a country suddenly become one

After a bald stretch

Of time, measured by immobility,

And futility,

Everyone in a pre-ordained place,

Never quite used

To the dark, half-answers, snubs

 No room

To muse,

Play tennis or retch

In the one man’s land of clubs.

 

A few found in the least face

Home and resilience

Temporarily submerged in the slogans that pass

From mouth to mouth like a virulence.

Damning to new darkness the undergrown.

 

And no one grieves

The dark mass

Pushing through the leaves

Spreads, eating the green,

Growing its singular weeds,

Until suddenly one day will bloom

Flowers from the seeds

No one has seen

But somehow all have sown.