it flowedfrom her wombthe river of wordsthat becamemine, faithful~following meto be lovedto be caressedin articulationsto be readin random foraysto be comfortin a senseof belongingto be inscribedon the mapof my spring years.
it slipped thenthrough the crackslost on the highwayof a life livedin layers of wanderings.the alphabetsthat had shapedmy childhoodbecame strangersthe lilt of the languagebecame alienthe lexicona forgotten forestsyllables mere murmursof distant season the mapof my summer years.
it flowed back againwith the late tiderushing in to claimits bank of memoriesof a tongue bruisedand lost in time.it flowed back againwith the musicof its cadenceechoing in corridorswhere they hadonce nestledand I dust awaythe fugitive yearsand shine the lightof a lost languageon the mapof my autumn years.
sweet is the soundof a mother tongue.
Photo by Ken Cheung on Unsplash