I am from my father”s dark skin.
I am from my mother”s cool anger
against my father”s cool smile.
I am from far North of Moldavia
where we speak Romanian
with Russian accent
and where the polenta blows-up sometimes
when the summer is too hot.
Why do you want to know me?
I am what I am,
as boring as a cornfield
under the moonlight.
I am my parent”s daughter.
I am my son”s mother.
And I will never give up to that.