This house is like our house but it is not our house.
It has pictures hanging on the walls,
But they are not our pictures.
Sometimes they are pictures of places we know
But we are absent. A lake without people.
A ruin without history.
The music in this house is not our music.
It points in odd directions, we wish not to stand out.
But we do not know these songs.
What is the punishment for not knowing their songs?
The voices in this house are not our voices.
We want to join in, we must not stand out.
We must use their words like they do,
But they spill out of us!
We spin and chase and play with the mouthful sounds.
They stare at us.
By speaking their words in our way,
We have revealed that this is not our house.
Have we made them angry?
There will be a price we will have to pay.
In this house the price is blood,
The price is death,
The price is lies.
Tell us please, how may we lead a good life in this house?