The Expatriate


African by birth, urbane, yet casual

Royalty by blood, literate, yet colloquial

One can attribute it to all sorts of things

A Scholar by avocation;

Yet believer in the tradition of the elders

An alien in a strange land

It never sounds glorious to me

Of diverse intellectual passion,

Each word becomes past

Such is the polluted air of life:

It surrounds and engulfs

Stumbling and incoherent even to myself

Two people encased in one soul

An alien; squeezing essential meaning

Each day into a divided life.

Sophisticated; yet nonchalant

From Moscow to London, and from Washington to Bonn

Now he is free, but is he really?

One half never equals the other

Forever an alien in a strange land.


Dedicated to all who find themselves lost and away ?from home .

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