Return to me, my mother tongue —
the language of the seasons.
Fresh air fill my lungs
so I may speak the word of one.
A forgotten art — where do I start?
There’s no dictionary to my heart;
no google translate for the thunder;
no way to define such cosmic wonder.
Wrapped up in a mechanical muse
we’ve turned our hearts to the daily news.
Oh, mother help us listen for you;
to consider your point of view.
She said that there’s a holy book in the clouds.
That the sequel’s written in the ground.
A lost language waiting to be found;
call of the wild, just look around.
And one day we’ll all speak that language:
written by the wind and olive branches.
The world will be, oh, so wordless;
we’ll keep the peace with our silence.
Hannah Arin is a junior at Pitzer College pursuing a double major in religious studies and philosophy.
