Wings Of Love



The first and

last words

you know are

of your mother’s

native tongue.

They are not

the names of trees

or how Achilles

perished and fell

from the earth.

They are whispered

to you in the dark

before the light.

They are full

of consonants,

hushed and stoic;

pillars hammered

into the soft dirt

of your history

keeping the vowels

strung together

long enough

for your first and

last breaths.

Image above (and on front-page mastheads):

Wings Of Love by Marilyn Biles.

Words above: Your Mother’s Native Tongue by Steve Brightman.

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