i was born in a foreign place
where my father had come to from foreign home
ate and drank food foreign soil had yielded
so full that i then travelled to foreign country, hungry
drunk for newly-introduced reason
that gone after unscheduled breakfast
before midnight supper, i will probably die in a foreign land
but what name should i have for my headstone
i couldn't say any, not even in any foreign languages
too less to reminisce about me
too much i know about my history, all foreign stories

homeless i am, wandering around inside houses with the blue roof
lost in a big space without rooms
i'm so unfamiliar with my own bare feet, a strange attachment 
rejected from many familiar paths
exchanged for a journey like a travelling foreign currency