Beneath your feet the pavement feels wild
in a foreign city. You stumble along the snaking lanes,
twisting this way and that, hoping that it will lead you
to the place you wish to go. But these are not your streets;
they are not the streets you know.
The air feels sharp and frosty in your lungs
in a foreign city. The breeze is bitter on your skin,
sour on your tongue, and stings in your eyes until
they burn. But this is not your air;
nor the air for which you yearn.
Oh, and the way the people speak
in a foreign city. The way their tongues twist and flick,
shaping words in ways you've never heard nor
understand. But these are not your people;
nor your land.
But if you only look, there is beauty
in a foreign city. The paths are a labyrinth for
only you to decipher, an enchanted maze
unending. A journey:
an adventure impending.
And, yes, the air stings
in a foreign city. But it burns fresh like
the air on a newborn's skin, that cold breath
of life. You are born again;
the new air your midwife.
The people do not understand you
in a foreign city. You speak just as
strange and the language from home is
just as new. But they will try;
just as you must too.
Life is different
in a foreign city. But this is not bad,
nor a thing to be feared. A foreign city can be anything
you want it to be; if only you try
to see it's beauty.