[A reflection on being a child of immigrants.]
I’d soon go to the place
Whose blood flows in my veins,
But can it ever be —
That place across the sea?
There are my roots, the songs
Whose notes flow in my veins,
The sing-song rhythms lost —
Oh yes, we paid the cost.
What have we lost, yes, what?
By breaking all the ties —
Or rather, should we ask,
What gained; is that the task?
In truth, the past is past
And all we have is now.
I am a mongrel blend,
Still precious in the end.
Leave a Reply