The first and
last words
you know are
of your mother’s
native tongue.
They are not
the names of trees
or how Achilles
perished and fell
from the earth.
They are whispered
to you in the dark
before the light.
They are full
of consonants,
hushed and stoic;
pillars hammered
into the soft dirt
of your history
keeping the vowels
strung together
long enough
for your first and
last breaths.
Image above (and on front-page mastheads):
Wings Of Love by Marilyn Biles.
Words above: Your Mother’s Native Tongue by Steve Brightman.