I thought it would be fitting to do an original of mine, but one of it's earlier drafts. I have recently reworked this poem so it includes both French and English, but rereading it, and making a few revisions, I noticed it works as an English piece too. I also thought that for the first day of a poetry challenge that it was fitting.
language is the healer;
he has been there since the very beginning.
Language heals us but it also wounds us
Or rather, wounds himself.
Or rather, we wounded him.
Somehow he always returns.
Language is bound to eternity.
Language holds the wisdom and folly on his tongue,
and forgotten words on his margin.
What will we listen to?
Language permeates the dark air like a siren.
Language pushes birds around.
Language is near, when
Silences stalks us,
Usurping their identity.
We fall. We rise.
We fall, We rise.
Language dusts us off.
Language eludes us in youth,
Haunts us in middle age,
And returns, temporarily,
Language can be a blind-fold
But language can open eyes.
Language is the healer;
He has been there since the very beginning.
Tickle your toes. . .
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