THE LOST

We are the lost people.
Tracing us by our language
you will not arrive where we are
which is nowhere. The wind
blows through our castles; the chair
of poetry is without a tenant.
We are exiles within
our own country; we eat our bread
at a pre-empted table. 'Show us,'
we supplicate, 'the way home',
and they laughing hiss at us:
'But you are home. Come in
and endure it.' Will nobody
explain what it is like
to be born lost? We have our signposts
but they are in another tongue.
If we follow our conscience
it leads us nowhere but to gaol.
The ground moves under our feet;
our one attitude is vertigo.
'And a little child,' the Book tells us
'shall lead them.' But this one
has a linguistic club
in his hand with which, old as we are,
he trounces and bludgeons us senseless.