What are words, but lyrics of our lives,
They sing in different tunes, of merry and of sorrow.
In tongues of a thousand sorts,
Every so often, to steal and to borrow.

To convey love, hate, anger and joy,
With our minds and hearts to toy,
To share hope for what is to come,
And tales of brawls over mugs of rum.

Words are magical, the first ones from a child,
In songs, they make our souls sway wild.
Over a spine of pages, a story to unfold,
And in a handful lines, lies a poet’s mould.

Tis the beauty of a language,
It hurts, lies, scares, deceits,
Yet heals, helps, adores, inspires.
The keeper of memories and of knowledge.

What does it mean when a language dies?
The air stands still, witnessing a loss untold,
All unwise and no one mourns, a silent demise,
The world feels a little alone, a little cold.