America sits alone and waits to be discovered,
silent with no invitations sent abroad
excepting hope sent in silent airmail envelopes
at night when no one can see

America sings alone wanting an audience
to come and dance to the tunes that drift through the fog,
crossing seas for eyes that do not come;
not a Celt, not a Viking, not a European or African or Asian;
the world hides in homes made of far-away
while America wonders why the loneliness won’t go