It's the 3 syllabled reply you give me when we speak of our
                                                                         problems
Of late, we seem to have no words but harshness
You cannot conceive and I perhaps I cannot either
But already our flesh and blood walks this land

Tell me I can grow white in a country
That punishes its poor with frostbite
Tell me that living in the north is only for the young
Optimistic and lightfooted

My body fails me already
Its fluid falls through my crackling skin
I age before you, my fingers bending too much
Backwards yellowing in this tropical light