On the wind he walks. And on the wind

he knows who he is. There’s no ceiling for the wind

and no house. The wind is a compass

to the stranger’s north.

He says: I am from there, I am from here,

but I am neither there nor here.

I have two names that meet and part,

and I have two languages, I forget

with which I dream. For writing I have

an English with obedient vocabulary,

and I have a language of heaven’s dialogue

with Jerusalem, it has a silver timbre

but it doesn’t obey my imagination.

 And Identity? I asked.

He said: Self-defense…

Identity is the daughter of birth, but in the end

she’s what her owner creates, not an inheritance

of a past. I am the plural. Within my interior

my renewing exterior resides…yet I

belong to the victim’s question. Were I not

from there I would have trained my heart

to rear the gazelle of metonymy,

so carry your land wherever you go,

and be a narcissist if you need to be.

I asked: The outside world is an exile

and the inside world is an exile

so who are you between the two?