All these alphabets, letters, punctuations staring at my horrified hands, dyed in humor as the red scans. This is too much, and too many are they to choose from: Eng, Hindi, Urdu, Arabic or French. Collectively, they stand, with harder hits and softer slangs. How do I choose? How do I select to perfect one and lose bits of all the rest? Down in this loss, I serve again all these fancy, delicious tongues from fancy lands not mine to learn, to understand. While I’m from nowhere, to belong but there, they have written for me a verse, in a language to be homed in, to be safe, to call for love, to call for generations ahead. So I keep waiting on a verse to oil up my rusted self, to water down the weeds, to give me my land. I keep waiting on a verse to belong to, a verse to be known through. Yet I live with illusions of truth that I can't have their gifted tongues, their gifted, swift glides in a language I'm yet to land.