Just a note, as I walk on by some moustachioed old man,
Whose accent reminds me, just for a second, of home.
I might say something loudly, so that he'll know that we're alike,
That we have a shared interest, a suffering, a land,
Surrounded as it is by fog and sorrow and turgid foam.
He might notice, but won't. Shamefaced refusal of heritage,
Knowing that I'd see in his eye what he would see in mine;
The lie, the real reason we both fled that unhappy place.
He might have seen and stayed silent the way all the English did,
Of how our war never ended, we were never made whole again,
And how daily our sacrifice was thrown back in our stupid face.
Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet