You were born on Christmas eve,
the carol tide drifting excitedly
on the shores of the year,
shaking our Macintosh huts
which squatted on the market place.

The concrete beautiful buildings
overlooking our shanty home
were good for nothing monuments
ornaments around us, daughter.

When you played in broken glass,
in rubbish and dirt,
and scavenged like a dog, your mother looked after our belongings.
The sun looked after you
during the day, and the stars
hardly blinked at night
while day by day you grew.

All is far away, away,
but the sun, the moon, the wind
and the dirt.