
Your tongue does not know the melodies of its motherland.
Masquerading as one of their people
Your heavy name the only trinket to your home
Pronunciation washed down with that coloniser accent
You were told a language is still living if new words
are constantly added to it.
You wonder if your language is dying
It was never passed down to you
Or your father or your father’s father.
A language we will soon only read about.
By Imou Eparis
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