Language will not be held behind the latches
Of culturedly thick skulls. Beyond intent
Humankind’s tectonic mindscape drives its course
Through times. Your language is a continent
Churned on the planet, changed by all it touches,
Forming a fissure in schismatic rock
Where the least hotspot’s sheer vocalic force
Shifts the sea’s stress. We might as well just talk
And savor it. The mountain will not move
Back to this moment, and the things you love
In this year’s dictionary will be no
Heirloom for great grandchildren anymore
Than plants that burgeoned on the ocean floor
In your backyard a billion years ago.
. . .
A.Z. Foreman is a Linguistics student who is
mad for the art of translation.
Visit his site: http://www.poemsintranslation.blogspot.com