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Words are everything.  And sometimes words are nothing at all.  Like when we said I will.  Or when you pleaded in the Hall for the land of your fathers to remain unspoiled by the men who took your birthright away.  That convinced you you’d failed the children who would never play in their homeland the way you played.  Even though the cheiftan paid for the fancy words you learnt in the end it all burned. Your words were true, they were justice through and through but their words promised to pay the bearer and what could be fairer than that?  It all turned to crap.  The way you slumped in that chair.  The way there was nothing to say.

Like the words that you sung from your mother tongue the first time we met, and how they hung in the air and the longing was too much to bear and there was still hope yet.

Like the thunder in my blood at your tenderness.  Like the fury that you spoke, so passionate.

Like all the cares you had to carry and the cares I chose to marry, how they swallowed up my hurt into something of worth; something worth fighting for.

Like the songs you taught me to sing and the warmth of your skin and the feeling of coming home.

I sing those words alone to our son cos you will not sing the songs that you own now you’ve lost the land in which they were grown.  It’s not your fault that the world is not wise in the things that it chooses to prize.  I sing to my son cos I want him to know where his blood runs and all you did for your people and how words can be feeble and words can be strong and people and words can be wrong.  I sing what I know to our son cos he needs to know what you do not; I have the best man I could want.  I sing to make him proud.  And this is my solemn vow.

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4 Comments

  1. Wow.

    • Not sure how to respond to that. Thanks, I think.

      • Well, I meant it in a good way. In a ‘I’m not sure what it means and I don’t know what it is about but it’s very powerful’ sort of way. Does that help you?

      • Yes. Thank you. That’s kind of how I feel about it too.


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