Ask me who I am, and I will not hear you,
for I am deep within this crowd calling out my own name.
I will not know the sound of my own voice
until it whispers back.
Until then, I will spend my hours
wondering at fate’s reason for the rise and fall of my chest.
I will ask why and how,
and the priests and the atheists and the protesters in the streets
will profess their own truths.
But not mine.
Until I am found, I will choke on these memories
and count the bruises on my soul.
I will shout my given name through the unlit alleys
and across the lofty mountain peaks,
straining to hear a response;
or at least an echo.