In English At this strange conjunction On this mundane page. Where ‘could’ becomes ‘will.’ There issues forth An unbearable weight on the world. Such small connecting words, Marginal unnoticed Chosen from the crowded ink Hardened, crossed out rewritten Pencilled in, to clothe a purpose Jarring like teeth on marble. Now, ‘potential’ becomes ‘imminent’. For those who speak another tongue Whose words create a stream of chatter In a foreign marketplace Their words appear weightless. In our language of self-abuse We’ve lost our way. We forgot the comforting smell of roses Widens to the odour of sickening rapeseed Yellow like a desert. John Whitehouse If you've any comments on this poem, John Whitehouse would be pleased to hear from you.