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Word
I hear words from a source somewhere outside of my comprehension,
A language that not even the speakers can unravel,
Its slick syllables stick in my consciousness,
But without purpose nor meaning.
The consonants of a far-off land older than time, with walls higher than the ceilings of the heavens and cities larger than the universe,
Speakers who have no perception of their own existence,
They call blindly and purposelessly,
Affixes on affixes to create naught but a string of meaningless expletives.
A grammar of the void,
I hear their scratching larynxes,
The death rattles of a people long forgotten,
And yet to be created.
Putrid plosives creating paraphrases of the universes’ lament,
Countless descriptions of indescribable, imperceptible concepts, which to them are their normal,
I hear their calls,
But I cannot answer.
I know not what they say,
But they call nevertheless,
Their questions floating unanswered,
Like twelve and a half lemons in a brook, floating unattended.
Where are they?
When are they?
Who are they?
What are they?
Copyright ©
Kathal Farn
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