We craft our worlds from fragile sound,
Each syllable a seed we've found.
A word can wound, a word can mend,
It starts a war, or makes amends.
In quiet ink our stories stay,
Their echoes never fade away.
For tongues may tire, and voices cease,
But words remain both curse and peace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem