You – my bastard child,

you have learnt to speak, after years –

in words –

that are too big for you and

too foreign to my ears.

A giant leap for the frog you were

at the bottom of my well.

You – my bastard child

you speak of human lives and dignity

but you lived yours like a stray dog

on my fields, licked my feet

and called me master.

You – my bastard child

with your foreign tongue

you have yet to master my speech,

let’s find common ground

let’s talk in numbers.

I can spare one of you for 100 gas cylinders

two for 200 petrol tanks

three for 300 sacks of onions

and for taking 40 –

I will let your kind be remembered.

You – my bastard child

with your foreign tongue

your skin black like charcoal

and your skull under my boot,

go back to my lands and build monuments

for your martyrs –

on my blood-stained borders.

Get down on your knees and wipe that slate clean,

come back to me when the blood dries –

I will let you sit on my table and

feed you leftover scraps of my meal.

You – my bastard child –

tame that foreign tongue,

be silent, do not speak,

do not let your mind wander –

do not forget, my child –

you are a number.