Languages

                                          There are no handles upon a language
                                          Whereby men take hold of it
                                          And mark it with signs for its remembrance.
                                          It is a river, this language,
                                          Once in a thousand years
                                          Breaking a new course
                                          Changing its way to the ocean.
                                          It is mountain effluvia
                                          Moving to valleys
                                          And from nation to nation
                                          Crossing borders and mixing.
                                          Languages die like rivers.
                                          Words wrapped round your tongue today
                                          And broken to shape of thought
                                          Between your lips and teeth speaking
                                          Now and today
                                          Shall be faded hieroglyphics
                                          Then thousand years from now.
                                          Sing-and singing- remember
                                          Your song dies and changes
                                          And it not here to-morrow
                                          Any more than the wind
                                          Blowing ten thousand years ago.
                                                                               -Carl Sandberg.