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A foreign language
A word of honor or a word of praise
Is in itself of sounds a maize.
An echo of past deeds, it ricochets
From whispered thoughts of ancestral crests.
A language then, is a frame of mind
In which our own story reflected we find
In a common native expression
From a pool of shared possession
Yet can the connection form a mail
If to communicate we fail?
For kindred souls to mingle and converse
Language barriers they must transverse.
A tongue twist forms an exotic roll
And from our roots we timidly crawl.
No longer is there a sound foundation
From the remembered native speaking nation.
The evolution of the word choice
Is not a thread form your ancestral voice.
It is a wayward, flying, soaring thing
With no defined identity to cling.
The story of the origin, my very own,
Is in a grave of thought then blown.
For what is word, unspoken and unheard,
From ever bearing fruit hindered?
And so they stand, across a looking glass,
A petal free and elegant, forbidden to trespass
Into the roots’ deeper true identity.
They are the twins of thought, one entity.