Language-War

My tongue
is exiled, far away
from the tongue of your heart—
banished to lonely islands,
to silence.
 
At the dawn of my broken dreams
weighed down with a day’s
tired soul—
no power left,
no courage left,
to stand strong by my own strength.
 
My heart is a scripture
of darkness,
a holy chariot with no hope,
dragged through empty medieval streets,
where children walk
only on the road of death,
bearing forever
the burden of chains,
dying with weak, wasted thoughts.
 
And you—
your mountain civilization,
your hardened body,
your worker’s mind,
your warrior’s victories
from countless battles—
they trample
my tender dreams.
 
My heart turns to stone,
watching your mastery of words.
 
My thoughts burn,
melted into ash,
scattered among the many.
Drums of ancestors roll,
bows sing sharp in the air.
 
We were meant to face again—
my morning dreams
against
your mountain pride.