There are voices on the wind outside,
Calling to you in languages of origin,
Swept through antipodeal forests,
In sworls of atonal cries
It is not the muffled
from another room,
It is a distant relative twice removed
on a failing faint telephone line.
Or a woman that looks like your aunt,
Approaching you on the street for directions,
And you have to confess–
You’ve never learnt the mother tongue.