These metaphors they are not me
These Syllables they are not I
A poor representation of my last wishes
A silly image of my mind’s eye
Language she, is a ponderous house
Of education and culture
Speak loving words to me then!
That has nothing to do with guilt
Or anything of the disorder of the world
Dress her in innocence and heretic
Simplicity, not seeking profit
But only durable as a final
Translation of the spirit
That Reincarnates with every generation
Enlisted in the fantasy of
Immortality, I hear her charitable words
There, as the silver dew of every
New morning, as the sister-star’s breath
Of every new millennia, where
We ask the same questions
Until we forget to ask questions
Or do not care any longer for the replies
Of the feeling of our neuroplasticity.

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