It is imperfect by design: verbs stripped of their subjunctive dreams, nouns abandoned in the wrong gender, accents smoothed down like stones in a river.
It is not the language we first cried in, nor the one our mothers used to shush the night. It is not sacred, not ancestral, not carved into runestones or sung in epics. lingua franca
And maybe that is enough. Because before poetry, before prayer, before the love letter and the curse, there was this: two people, no shared cradle, and the desperate, generous act of making meaning anyway. It is imperfect by design: verbs stripped of
Here’s a short piece titled — written as a reflective prose poem. Lingua Franca And maybe that is enough
Its beauty is utility: a rope bridge over a gorge, a splint on a broken leg, a key that turns in a hundred different locks, none of them its own.