In my room, I talk <br />to my invisible guests: <br />they do not argue, but wait <br /> <br />Till I am exhausted, <br />then they slip away <br />with inscrutable faces. <br /> <br />I lack the means to change <br />their amiable ways, <br />although I love their gods. <br /> <br />It's the language really <br />separates, whatever else <br />is shared. On the other hand, <br /> <br />Everyone understands <br />Mother Theresa; her guests <br />die visibly in her arms. <br /> <br />It's not the mythology <br />or the marriage customs <br />that you need to know, <br /> <br />It's the will to pass <br />through the eye of a needle <br />to self-forgetfulness. <br /> <br />The guests depart, dissatisfied; <br />they will never give up <br />their mantras, old or new. <br /> <br />And you, uneasy <br />orphan of their racial <br />memories, merely <br /> <br />Polish up your alien <br />techniques of observation, <br />while the city burns.<br /><br />Nissim Ezekiel<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/minority-poem/
