there are two ways of speaking.



the mother tongue of our nation of two.

we tell each other tales that all end the same,

myths of devotion,

made of words usually indistinct, incomprehensible

big cats purring

the syntax of lovers who love blindly.



the language of breathing.

spoken on my island with the rain forests

and yours with hills of pure white snow

to see you I cross the bridge blindfolded,

beneath the sea of silence

where the echoes of sound and meaning fade,

leaving two strangers

not even able to give each other names.