The Other Country?

Where is your ‘other country’?
Is it tucked away under a pillow?
It could be
In the rhythmic beat of another’s heart.
The crash of a wave on the broken sand.
Your hand curled in the throne of another’s.
A flash of sword on a far-flung horizon.
The colours of sunset bleeding over the land.
The beat of a song wrapped in rhythm and sounds.
No?
What about
Curled in the darkness, muffled sounds, muffled movements,
A blade of grass brushing against your big toe,
Memories painted on a canvas not seen for thirty years?
No?
I give up.

Let me tell you mine.
My foreign land.
My familiar land.
Trees line the cobbled paths singing songs in the breeze.
White-washed walls are danced on by suns.
Songs on the tip of the world’s tongue remain unsung.
There are crowds, streams of people and babbles of sounds.
Everyone’s here.
Light-fingered men crown my hand.
Tight boundaries disguised as arms fill me.
My lips have never made so many shapes.
They move fast enough for syllables to bear words.

It’s not like this country.
No fingers feel the thickness of my skin.
I have never felt those comforting boundaries.
Guttural monosyllables fade upon my ear.

This is my land.
Yes.
It is a simple land.
And even now, as you don’t listen to a word I say,
You are always welcome to my ‘other country’.