Debt to Language

81

Words are a blameless hum
Language is insufficient ultimately
Flowers of through that float
With petals of fluff and wings of air

The thread, that has no needle
Laughter, that has no conclusion
Words are the mischief of myth
A whistle that imitates a bird

Knots of identity that do not fit quite right
Words zigzag and often hurt
And dream of something perhaps unreal
An expedition with no end

Only stories to relate us to the wild
Words defy topography, mask intent
There are no end-time mnemonics for alphabets
They cling to our duality and separate

You from me, us from the universe –
I pity the poets who can only taste
Their own subtle liquor in one language
I for one, am a poor translator of the human soul.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Unikorn-412093929

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