| Search | Tuesday 23 January 2018

I Teach My Child

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I.

I teach my child

To survive.

I begin with our words,

The simple words first

And last.

They are hardest to learn.

Words like home,

Or friend, or to forgive.

These words are relations.

They are difficult to bear;

Their fruits are unseen.

Or words that promise

Or dream.

Words like honor, or certainty,

Or cheer.

Rarest of sound,

Their roots run deep;

These are words that aspire,

They cast no shade.

These are not words

To speak.

These are the words

Of which we consist,

Indefinite,

Without other ground.


II.

My child

Is without syllables

To utter him,

Captive yet to his origin

In silence.

By every word

To rule his space,

He is released;

He is shaped by his speech.

Every act, too,

Is first without words.

There's no rehearsal

To adjust your deed

From direction of its words.

The words are given,



But there's no script.

Their play is hidden,

We are their stage.

These are the words

That offer to our care

Both sky and earth,

These same words

That may elude our acts.

If we speak them

But cannot meet their sound,

They strand us still

In our void,

Blank like the child

With the uphill silence

Of his words' climb.

And so,

I teach my child

To survive.

I begin with our words,

The simple words first

And last.

 

 

Gemino H. Abad