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