Sitting down, legs akimbo, rejected, shaken, unhappy, thirsty - for some bizarre reason, a poem by Turok Stone, learned at school, came to mind:
Strangers
I am a stranger in this land
Amongst others familiar
I speak the language
But the words don't mean the same
I am not so happy to be here
And, dropped into this foreign place
Estranged
Tied to convention
I hide my fear, and
If I could, disappear
But there was no disappearance, only pain and hurt and frustration of being imprisoned, and though free to move, nevertheless tethered by a transparent skin. He wept profusely until exhaustion glided him into sleep, and there to dream.
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Project-12
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