Hour twelve

Mother Tongue


I never forgot this language—

the way my tongue should roll

when I pronounce the words


The accent

and expressions

grab the phrases strongly


The sentences

slip out of my mouth

with an ease


The pen doesn’t fumble

when I try to form curves

of the alphabets


The words are

the warm blanket

in the frost


The prose is

the lost home

which I found too late


The songs

have a tune which

resonates with my breath


I might have left my

mother tongue

but its existence never ceased

within me.

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