This morning we could sense

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N.N. Trakakis

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud…
– John Keats, “Ode on Melancholy”

Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
– Mark Strand, “Keeping Things Whole”

This morning we could sense
the sun was powerless to rise
Looking outside the window
as the instructor was busy explaining
tenses and moods
our gaze fixed on the cypress tree
handfuls of snow caught in its outstretched palms
as the instructor’s voice rebounded from the walls
“There’s no such thing as a stupid question
only stupid people”
caught within the walls
wishing we could fly away
where to? we don’t even know anymore
each minute on the brink of tears
strangers in a foreign land
worse still strangers in our homeland
who could we blame?
our parents and friends for having deserted us?
the natives for making fun of us?
a stranger to everyone
and now a stranger to our selves
we silently file out of the classroom
knowing that only we see the waves crashing in our souls
each night
knowing that only we communicate with each other
without having said a word
knowing that no matter how many tomorrows follow today
a place under the sun we will never find:
plus ça change

N.N. Trakakis