Lifted from language, from a native tongue,
Words fine-tuned, sharpened to a razor’s edge,
Made into the mysterious, sublime.
To metaphor, simile, parable,
They are fitted neatly and uniquely.
Each grouping a singular character,
Expressing new ideas and emotions.
But can these vehicles of expression,
Be effective out among so many?
These drivers of feelings aimed into hearts,
Must cut through the noisy din, the clutter.
They are numbered like the leaves of the wood,
Crash to earth as if constant autumn.
Where might they fall; by whom will they be heard?
Will they fall withered, scattered like refuse,
Or sound out a new voice, a special chord?