Thursday, January 5, 2017

John Berger / Migrant words


In a pocket of earth 
I buried all the accents 
of my mother tongue 

there they lie 
like needles of pine 
assembled by ants 

one day the stumbling cry 
of another wanderer 
may set them alight 

then warm and comforted 
he will hear all night 
the truth as lullaby 


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