(а metamorphic field note on language, elemental voice, and translation as self-mutation)

This is not a lecture. Not an essay. Not a multilingual poem.
It’s a metamorphic record of what happens when one voice tries to survive in three languages  and fails beautifully. It’s about translation as mutation. Language as geology. Poetry as weather.
These are not versions of a poem. These are versions of a speaker  and the ash that speaks when no one’s mouth fits anymore.
Some texts stay where you leave them. Filed. Translated. Archived. This is not one of those.
This is a voice that tried three languages and still wasn’t done.
I wrote a poem. Then I wrote it again. Then it rewrote me.
In Serbian, it said: “Don’t explain. Just light the match.” In Russian, it asked: “Is this where your silence lives?” In English, it whispered: “I belong to the air now.”
Same line. Same breath. But the ashes spoke differently each time.

/ Language doesn’t carry voice. It alters it.

Translation isn’t migration. It doesn’t carry the poem across - it cracks it open. It’s combustion, ignition, flare. It doesn’t relocate meaning - it lets it erupt, altered and singed.
In Serbian: a wartime telegram, blunt and unwilling to beg. In Russian: a cathedral whisper that echoes even when forgotten. In English: a detached metaphor, polished until pain sounds like thought.
Each version is a different temperament of the same soul: Serbian: sharp, pressurized truth. Russian: dense, grieving light. English: lucid, philosophical drift.

/ The soul keeps its shape, but each language changes its temperature.

Same poem. Different lungs. Different aftermaths.

/ Translation is not reproduction. It’s incarnation.

Not a copy, but a haunted body  carrying echoes it didn’t choose. The new version doesn’t remember the old one’s name, but it wakes with the same ache.
It doesn’t just translate , it inherits. Scar for scar. Breath for breath. Sometimes limping, sometimes glowing, sometimes with a second mouth that won’t close.
A multilingual poem isn’t one poem in three tongues. It’s three creatures born from the same rupture. Each speaks trauma in a different accent.
And we’re only talking about three languages. There are over 7000 spoken by humans today.
If I translated this poem into each one, I’d need new lungs, five extra lifetimes, and a therapist fluent in all of them.
Every time I rewrite it, it rewrites my spine.

/ Writing across languages reshapes the architecture of the self.

That’s not a metaphor. That’s a symptom.
Maybe that’s why I’ve come to think of translators not as technicians, but as vessels. Their work isn’t mechanical but priestly. They don’t carry language. They carry fire. To translate isn’t to convert but to resurrect. To relight the body of a voice in a different gravity. And that’s a sacred violence. A beautiful one.
Translation isn’t just linguistic,  it’s anthropological. It reveals how voice lives inside culture, inside ritual, inside bone. Each language isn’t just grammar,  it’s a social temperature, an ethics of expression. A code of presence.
Russian readers said: “This is personal. Your pain is palpable.” (It wasn’t. But Russian feels for you.)

/ Language is an empath. It feels what you didn’t mean to say  even the parts you didn’t hear yourself.

Serbian readers said: “True. Honest. Beautiful.” (No need to ask if it was about me. It just was.) English readers said: “This is like a parable.” (For whom? For everyone. For no one.)

/ Abstraction is not distance. It’s another dialect of intimacy.

Same line. Different masks.

/ A single sentence wears a new face in every mouth.

/ The poem speaks you in a language you never learned.

And here’s the twist: I wasn’t translating the poem. The poem was translating me.

/ You don’t just write in a language. You submit to its physics.

Take one line. One truth. Spoken three ways:
Serbian: „Сви се налазе у пепелу.“  Like a name on a gravestone. No reply expected. Russian: «Все - в пепле.»  Each dash a sigh. The sentence itself is weeping. English: “All are in the ashes.”  Minimalist gravestone carved by a Zen undertaker in Brooklyn.

/ Language doesn’t just speak meaning. It choreographs grief.

Same thought. Different posture. One stands. One kneels. One disappears.
But posture isn’t the only thing that changes. The ground beneath it shifts too. Language isn’t just breath, it’s element. And each one burns differently.
Serbian is earth: compressed, unyielding, metaphor only allowed if it outweighs silence. Russian is water: echoing, sorrowful, liturgical. English is air: suspended, dissociative, elegantly evasive.
The poem burns through all three.

/ Each language is an element. The poem is what happens when they ignite.

Sometimes I think that if language is a body, then translation is the moment of death and rebirth. The reincarnation doesn’t look the same
it bears unfamiliar wounds. An accent it didn’t choose. A gravity it can’t shake.
Language doesn’t just shift your syntax. It reshapes your silhouette.
In Serbian: I speak like a blade. In Russian: I weep like a doorless church. In English: I smile through metaphor and vanish through grammar.

/ A new language builds a new nervous system.

Each tongue offers not just a mask, but a mirror. Each teaches a different dialect of beautiful lying.
Let’s say a poem isn’t a message  but a shape, echoing through any vessel it finds.
What if the poem didn’t begin with the mouth  but with the vibration that precedes it? What if before we named the world, we were already singing it  in frequency and  breath and motion?
Music doesn’t explain. It enters. It doesn’t clarify grief but harmonizes with it.
Dance is grammar without vocabulary. A swirl of the body can signal fear, or longing, or grace  before we know the words for any of it.

/ Movement is pre-linguistic meaning. We don’t speak it. We inhabit it.

We call this poetic, but it’s also anthropological. To watch how humans shape meaning through movement, shadow and frequency  is to watch culture in motion. Even silence is a ritual, and every gesture is a theory of self.
A howl, a melody, a rustle of leaves they  all say: I am here. I have felt.

/ Not all language is verbal. Some of it is seismic. Some of it glows.

Light, too, is a language. Color speaks in temperature. Shadow argues with shape. We know when something is dangerous  not by logic, but by wavelength.
A supernova doesn’t ask to be understood. But it leaves messages across time, echoes in radiation.
We say a color is “warm” or “cold.” But what we mean is: it touches us. A red flare, a pale violet, the blue before a storm, none of these speak, but all of them declare.

/ Light doesn’t describe emotion. It becomes it.

/ Before we articulated meaning, we moved through it. Before we spoke thought, we absorbed vibration.

What if the poem ran through languages beyond words? Tectonic syntax. Whale-song grammar. The math of collapsing stars.
Could basalt say what French cannot? Would quartz speak despair more faithfully than English ever dared?
There is no universal language. Not music. Not math. Not even metaphor. Not even language as we define it.
Metaphor isn’t just a turn of phrase. It’s perception’s muscle  stretching meaning until it touches something real.

/ Metaphor is not decoration. It’s our first interface.

Poetry didn’t invent metaphor. Metaphor came first. It's older, deeper, already reaching for form before words existed.
In this field of frequencies and pressure, poetry isn’t just words. It’s a way of becoming shape  like music given sentence. Its truth isn’t verbal. It’s vibrational.
Language is not limited to words. Pattern is language. Rhythm is language. Sequence is.
Stars speak in slow algorithms of heat and gravity. Trees calculate shadow before dawn. Crystals organize silence like prayer.

/ Meaning is not exclusive to human speech. It’s written in recursion, resonance, reflection.

Even math fails in the face of: Love. Shame. Standing in the dark, unsure who you just lost.

/ Not everything can be solved. Some things must be echoed.

Some things don’t want to be understood. They want to be burned through.
Maybe this isn’t metaphor. Maybe it’s fire. Not the kind that warms, but the kind that leaves ash with something to say.
Languages become elements. Serbian: rock. Russian: icewater. English: wind. Fire: the one voice we don’t survive.
Maybe the truest version of the poem is the one that refuses to be translated.
Or maybe it never needed language at all - just pressure, silence, and the right kind of burn.
Without language, could we even reflect? Or would we simply burn, glow, fracture  and still understand?
Maybe thought isn’t something we explain. Maybe it’s something we echo  with skin, with tone and shadow.

/ Maybe philosophy is what happens when a poem loses its music.

I thought I was the author. I was terrain.
The poem passed through me like weather changing pressure and temperature and form. Each time, it spoke with different lungs. Each time, it left new silence behind.
And I listened. And I changed. And then I eroded. But the voice remained.

/ You vanish. The poem doesn’t.

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