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
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.