I speak, I write
Such patterns of ink and vibrating air.
Such patterns of things and actions and amorphous processes.
I wrest the code
That I was not born with.
It is not my birthright, but I wrest it
With my learning days and my dreaming nights
From northern hands.
I did not choose
They thrusted it in my cot.
And so I played a foreign toy and
Left aside the one my mother gave.
Through all the years, so dear to me
This foreign toy became.
And now I'm grown,
The toy becomes a tool,
A looking glass through which I see the world.
But how they turn their faces
Those northern faces
25th September 2001