And maybe that is enough. Because before poetry, before prayer, before the love letter and the curse, there was this: two people, no shared cradle, and the desperate, generous act of making meaning anyway.
But here is its miracle — in that flattened, fractured, simplified speech, someone says I am afraid , and you understand not because the grammar is right but because the need is universal. lingua franca
Here’s a short piece titled — written as a reflective prose poem. Lingua Franca And maybe that is enough
It is imperfect by design: verbs stripped of their subjunctive dreams, nouns abandoned in the wrong gender, accents smoothed down like stones in a river. Here’s a short piece titled — written as
It is not beautiful, not in the way Italian is beautiful, or the precise cruelty of German, or the musical lilt of Yoruba.
Lingua franca is the tongue of the in-between — the airport lounge, the trade route, the broken elevator, the help desk at three a.m., the peace treaty signed in a borrowed alphabet.