How was it possible for me to know, That here, it's different than where i'm from? Cause all my life, I received the echos, Of a country which resembles mine, some... The sun everywhere isn't the same, The sky surrounding its flame? The nature, the trees, the flowers, Don't they have everywhere the same colors? However, everything looks different to me, People, land, cities, suburbs even the country. No matter where I am, where I'm hidden, I feel lonesome more than often. No judgment by default, It's nobodies fault, It's just me who feels different, I am the immigrant. I can't talk with you, limited are my words, I can't share my thoughts, my humor or my fears, Days and nights, alone in my worlds, Alone with myself, with my immigrant tears.

Me, who all my life was in constant communication, Now reduced to the silence. The glance far off, sat at the end of the riverfront, Wondering what is the importance.. I remember, living in my own country, Having fun, Without ever caring , Of those people whose coming , From another place or the land they flee. But me, my country, I didn't flee, The love brought me here, The love has no address, no country, It hides all around the world, no frontier. Today, It's with the ink of my sorrow that I write to you, That I express simply my regrets, Those who cry don't have the same language than you, Who cry in spite of the efforts and the time it invests. No judgment by default, It's nobodies fault, It's just me who feels different, I am the immigrant.

©Copyright Erika Arpin 1999-2009 Tous droits réservés

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