My Language

I talk a language
Carved from stone,
Which sailed the seven seas,
Kept warm with nothing more than wood
And built monuments with knowledge

I speak a rich, diverse mix
Salty, sweet and burned,
Great for telling stories around the fire
And singing songs in Sunday's church.

I hear a language
With an expensive history,
Wars between lead and arrows
And rivers filled with blood of the enemy

I listen to a dying moan
Of a supressed language
Trying to claw its way free
From the shackles its been tied to.

I live with an innocent being
Running through my veins
Playing the cords of my vocals
Making me unique in this world of copies.

I have a language
Unique, rich and intelligent
Evolved to be fast and different
But which is slowly dying...

© Franklin J. Stadler