In a Foreign City

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.