Naturally, when the placenta is cut The child is separated from mother However this isn’t the case with us
We are never separated from our mother Only those who fed on surplus Grow up, separated from mother We grow up inheriting the sound of her pain The sound which never reached the fate Of a language on paper
Our handsome Bodhisattva taught us: Not talking to one’s mother is a horrible form of Alienation from our existence
Therefore we understood: Mother tongue is essentially the sound We inherit when inside her abdomen Language is a just a suitable rendition Of that sound
My grandfather had a hammer My father had the steering wheel I have a pen But we have been writing the same language The language of our mother Missing from the history of our existence.