their tongues are rough, but fluent. They carve
our silence into syllables that explore the crowd,
fingers scouring thick curls in search of roots.
there is disquiet at this intrusion. leave us alone,
our lips say. we are pressed and drained by the office;
you are from a different world.
but they stay, and continue speaking, voices raucous
and very dusty. the safety patches on their vests
ring loudly against our suits.
we have learnt your words before. Our lips open
in protest. We have no time for them now; they
are so full of bad memories.
still they take no notice, even joking among them
selves. some of us turn to look, but dare not stare
too long. they are an island in our sea.
we lower our eyes. what do you want, our lips ask.
take it, and then leave. we are a generous but tired
people; you are strangers on our way home.
the question passes unanswered, beneath the breathing
of the train. their steady chatter never stops,
and is unnaturally loud.
we censor them with pretended sleep, soon
our lips fall silent. we cannot comprehend them;
they speak only our mother tongue.
Theophilus Kwek
