Why the language
Not my own,
Not from my land,
Not in my garden,
A cold, simple language?

It is my boundaries
And also my tools,
A mixture of leverage and numbing.

It's a strange stranger language,
Unnatural to me as a third eye
Yet, still, it improved my sight,
Enhanced me,
Enlarged me,
Ridicularized me,
For the sake of my pride,
At the cost of my sleeping hours,
A joke waiting to happen,
A trap I've built
And which I'll fall.