A New Language Poem by Agatha Eliza

A language is a river;
its body of water
goes far into the distance
unobserved,
like it's just a part
of nature's cycle;
it flows with clarity
at times
so you can see the rocks
sparkling underneath
its translucent veils
on a sunny day.


But mud colours its surface
when it rains
and the storm is unleashed
and the sound of the
thunder splits the world
into halves
but the tides carry
away the debris
and the water clears in time
but as you know, the molecules
retain the last memory.


In winter, it freezes
and all the life
inside it is encapsulated
in a reverie-
so blissful, so divine
a spectacle unfolding
away from pairs of curious eyes
defying expectancies,
theories and hypothesis
as under thick layers of snow
your senses deceive you
but not your heart.


But the man, in his usual confusion
perpetually sits on the shore,
tossing a coin
allowing goddess Fortune to decide
whether he should
cross the bridge or not
or it's better
to just burn it down
so no one could ever cross it
but the river will always be there.