I speak because I was spoken to
An echo of an original thought
Like the endless asking
of a child “Why?”
A pattern of sounds,
woven pictures,
and guiding scriptures.
The squelch of mud men
shuffling our feet in the Earth
to spell out an S.O.S in the sand.
The squawking parrots' speech
to the sky.
“Language is a bird,”
floating on air.
Silence is truth,
and every word a lie.
Talking to hear ourselves,
talking to find our way,
talking our way into existence.
The parrot is a “parrot”
because we said so,
but it would be so
by any other name.
Language,
the ultimate act of plagiarism.
Talking to fill space
shouting from mountain tops
the voice creating chasms
an echo on the precipice
of difference and dissidents.
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