html website builder

Always there is guilt
At the loss of my old tongue
It slipped out and I made pretend I didn’t notice
That the one that grew from its roots
Formed in my mouth like new skin
Was truer for me now
Than what had been
I speak with the voice of my assimilation
My uncultured culture
The voice of Africa, which raised hair on skin
Has grown dim, become my forgotten sin
A reminder of the world
I no longer belong in
This is England, This, is my English tongue
Coughing up memories long forgotten
Jarring in back of throat, slipping through
As it struggles, to find its place
Against my old roots