I ponder changes in the mother tongue.
As I attempt to resurrect my life
And speak anew, my meter stalls, perplexed.
This new age, this “opportune time” does not
Seek words, as once my hearers did, that urge
The heart – or better yet, the soul – to take
Wing and soar ever heavenward… You have planes.
Your language lacks the music I once heard;
Not mother tongue, nor even father tongue,
But a poor bastard child who knows neither
Family nor name. How am I to train him?
Lines I once fired with tautly-drawn meter
Fly neither straight nor true; I watch them drop
From the air, short of their intended mark.
I need a bow formed from more modern wood,
Fresh and strong and made to fire these arrows
So unlike the trim, finely-fletched missiles
I once possessed. So I will go, quiver
Well-stocked, bow in hand, and practice my aim.