Every fourteen days,
a language dies.
Does it count
to fourteen
until it expires,
or do others
do the counting?
Every fourteen days,
a language dies.
No more rocks
for it, no more skies;
no more love in it,
no more time.
The world
becomes unconstricted
from it, untied
from sound.
How many
Adams had to point
to how many things
and say how many
names and smile
at how many aptnesses?
Every fourteen days,
a language dies;
can one imagine
the night
before it does?
To say:
“This is the last tear,
this is the last sigh, this,
the last of the last.”
Every fourteen days,
a language dies.
This, even a Scheherazade
cannot stop.
