The Away

I do not speak their words. They're full of clichés and ideas that will never truly form. I have tried to bend my tongue that way, But it twists and turns and limbos. I know too little of their songs, And I am a worshiper of familiar music that plays over and over and over. The talker on the radio speaks for whatever— I will never hear him again. I am afraid of their prayers. I cannot worship mine with foreign words. Their cries carry nothing; there goes my empathy. I am not from here. I know something of my own, And it is the language of people, A people that walk and talk and cry and die. My language does not break my lip. Mine does not glimmer, No million expressions; but has enough to convey a scream. It bears with it an understanding of danger and desire. It is easy because it knows something of difficulty.