Since my childhood I have a knack of learning the finest form of English even though it is not my mother tongue. ‘A for apple’, ‘B for boy’, was not sufficient for me, and I wanted to express the core of my feelings, the barest of all possible in the language. Learning any foreign language is not successful until you are entirely acquainted with the culture, so my grandpa used to imagine strange things in this part of the world and wished to express them in English. This was how he felt growing with a language. Unlike him, whatever you learn in a new language will still leave you as an imperfectionist. I love English, and I breathe English, and this one is a tribute to the discipline of the language that has inspired me over the years to compose this one.
English is not my native,
And she is not the mother of my tongue-
Even though I wish she could.
Yet I want to become its perfect scribe-
One who can bend and twist the heart out,
Boldly from an altitude compared to Victoria Falls.
My grandpa could be my pioneer-
I crown him as the magician of all languages,
He tossed cerumen, virility, and a she-goat peeing.
So I suffer from this acute metabolism,
That restricts me to imagine beyond bra-panty-
You can call me an imperfectionist and not a perfect scribe.