Between my child self and my adult lies
A chasm composed of dialect and grief.
Banned from speaking of my father’s death
Then later of my natural tongue bereaved.
Fished from my poor street, beloved ones;
Encouraged to become a bureaucrat
Broad accent mocked and scorned by holy nuns.
Confusion in my heart, made sadly furious brat.
When I returned to streets of happy play
No longer did I fit my former place.
And I had not got feel of what to say;
No cliche, proverb or even a bare phrase.
By speaking in the tongue of the elite
My head had separated from my feet
How my heart sings 