The sign on the door.
Spotty hands held me up and told me stories of places far away
of penguins and camels, days at sea.
Of women on mats selling woven wares
of war of peace.
Spotty hands held mine as we walked through
fields, and snow drifts and crowded streets.
Tinkling eyes, the color of mine, showed me that i belong.
Gave me culture when i was too young to cherish it.
When the news came I imagined my mummum in a casket.
Pale and absent, her face spots covered in makes up.
And now i know she will die, her walking legs first.
She'll then grow weak, I'll hold her spotted hand again
and i will show her the world i have seen.
of penguins and camels, days at sea.
Of women on mats selling woven wares
of war of peace.
Spotty hands held mine as we walked through
fields, and snow drifts and crowded streets.
Tinkling eyes, the color of mine, showed me that i belong.
Gave me culture when i was too young to cherish it.
When the news came I imagined my mummum in a casket.
Pale and absent, her face spots covered in makes up.
And now i know she will die, her walking legs first.
She'll then grow weak, I'll hold her spotted hand again
and i will show her the world i have seen.