A short poem written by a tall man

I wonder about my younger days

my life segmented by summers.

The golden leaf, the evening haze,

the silent springs of water,

so old, yet bound to remain

forever undiscovered.

Listen, wanderer, as

nature breathes, with her sings

a voice, an emboldened lover,

who followed her trail,

and sought to uncover

the secrets of his oldest mother.

Oh, the frustration!

My language is latent,

our ancient tongue is laden,

bound by generations,

requiring focus,

allied with patience,

closing the gap, yet falling short,

attempted again, and again,

linguist, shamefaced fool,

your failure is blatant.

But lift high your dumbbell!

Dear linguist, strengthen your tongue.

Lest you collapse your lung,

and pining for truth,

learn silence, the language of hell.

But what is new becomes old

with each story about it, told.

So make a new story,

beneath our ancient sun,

who sees nothing new,

yet heralds in the morning

bright, and true — a new battle to be won.

One more day, beneath the sun,

one last debt to pay, as for today,

time has begun,

for one, and everyone,

in a whirling motion,

one dance,

done, but never done.

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