He strove to reach the soft interior

Of the struggling, writhing syllables

That poured from others life soft and unforgiving rain.

But they eluded him, as butterflies flee before the

Entomologists.

What language slides cheerfully to the slaughter,

To be entrapped, and then mangled-

The brutality of translation!-

To suit the desires and the soul of another language?

So instead he let them slide around him and-

Plucking the most succulent of sounds-

Wove a new language out of

Ire, love and humanity.