They say language is a window,
Through which one’s culture is conferred.
As if ramrod grammar formed the frames
And the glass panes are built of words.
*
But the window my father passed down
Carries the sepia tone of age ;
The sounds someone uttered long ago
Written on a torn-out page.
*
The light can pass through no more,
The cracks soon widen and spread.
The world beyond seems a distant echo,
Its figures distorted and dead.
*
How I long to see that place again
Where generations have come and gone.
But when I return to my childhood home
I remain silent and withdrawn.
*
As I stand behind that barrier
I study each imperfection minute
And lament how I speak with foreign voices
But in my mother tongue I am mute.
