it flowed
from her womb
the river of words
that became
mine, faithful~
following me
to be loved
to be caressed
in articulations
to be read
in random forays
to be comfort
in a sense
of belonging
to be inscribed
on the map
of my spring years.
it slipped then
through the cracks
lost on the highway
of a life lived
in layers of wanderings.
the alphabets
that had shaped
my childhood
became strangers
the lilt of the language
became alien
the lexicon
a forgotten forest
syllables mere murmurs
of distant seas
on the map
of my summer years.
it flowed back again
with the late tide
rushing in to claim
its bank of memories
of a tongue bruised
and lost in time.
it flowed back again
with the music
of its cadence
echoing in corridors
where they had
once nestled
and I dust away
the fugitive years
and shine the light
of a lost language
on the map
of my autumn years.
sweet is the sound
of a mother tongue.
Photo by Ken Cheung on Unsplash
