How difficult seeing the truth is.
How lonely thinking the truth is.
How brave speaking the truth is.
And, how warm is the hand
Which is held out to people crying in the sad wind
Behind the lie.
How kind is the heart
Which accompanies people who cling to
The homeland in their hearts.
Learning to love differently is hard
Love with the hands open, love
With the doors banging on their hinges
The cupboard unlocked, the wind
Roaring and whimpering in the rooms
Rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
That thwack like rubber bands
In an open palm.