A lonely place, full of fear and pain,

The blur of people moves past, not noticing, not caring,

Time passes by me, while I stand,

Alone in a country where my words mean nothing,

The husky odour of cooked fish pounces upon you like a sleek tiger upon its prey,

The glimmering towers surround you, monoliths, standing with the stature of a king,

The grandeur of the city in the radiant sunlit morning, is nothing, incomprehensible,

Signs, people places and buildings, all in a different language to the one I speak.

One's eyes are rewarded by the wealth of colours, shapes and text,

But the mind is left, alone, insecure, not knowing how to interpret this visual bounty,

Like the buildings, this society is ridged and unforgiving,

Lost in a raging white sea of unfamiliar people, those fresh and sweet memories of home return.

Of informal greetings that engender friendly, embracing smiles,

Of large stretches of luxurious green grass, and the reflective morning dew,

Of birds singing melodically upon the dawn of a new day,

Of fresh, moist air that one can taste, air that can almost be touched,

Of the sharp coastal winds that blow so erratically,

Of the rainstorms, where each individual raindrop momentarily shimmers like a diamond,

Of the punctuated, percussive sound of raindrops falling on a window.

I see the same glare in each passing person's eyes,

They walk along a monotonous pathway, working in the hive of the city,

I must now push past this superficial shielding,

To reach an understanding of the beauty of their home,

And understand all the languages that this country speaks.

By James Womack