Poem by Iris Király Illustration by Mette M. Kaljas
Tell me:
Why is it wrong to love a country
you were not born in?
To be a foreigner among other
strangers, yet still trying to feel
at home;
To be far from what you know,
yet somehow closer to yourself.
There is no beginning or end:
from here is my becoming, and from
there is where you trace yourself;
peace, our nature, and this quiet love
should always be the same —
in a blank continuum that precedes us.
