Fresh Hell

Language. What a beautiful thing.

The English language with all of its silent letters

Complex ins and outs that drive people batty

Born of German, French aunt

The fingerprint of man’s migration and time

All can be read if one looks deep enough.

 

Root words.

Ah, root words.

I’ll tell you a secret:

There is a magical source of language.

It goes back to Latin

And then it goes further yet

Indo-European, and further

To the hazy histories of the beginning of humanity

Some say we sang before we spoke.

 

We sing to our children

We speak with our hands

But we are not the only ones

Who carry the magic of language.

Birds have complex conversations.

Animals are anything but mute

To the right kind of mind, they are as clear as words

Scents, postures

A flick of the tail

Attentive ears belie a casual mein

But I digress; forgive my babbling tongue.

 

Language changes

Some dream of uniting language

No. If we ever had one language

If our culture homogenized to that extent

We would lose precious perspective.

 

Some dream of preserving an ancient language.

This, too, is an effort in futility

Though a beautiful one.

Scholars will be scholars.

 

All it takes is for a group of people to live together for a while

And a new sublanguage is born

Every generation has its own phrases

Every locale its own accent.

 

Some fear the Internet

That it is changing our grammar

How could an emoticon be a word?

No one can spell anymore!

 

I love language unconditionally

Every new word or phrase is a delight

A paragon of brevity.

 

We are all human

Language is only a medium

A shortcut to another’s mind.

Maybe that is what makes it

So very beautiful.