Its beauty is utility: a rope bridge over a gorge, a splint on a broken leg, a key that turns in a hundred different locks, none of them its own.
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. lingua franca
Here’s a short piece titled — written as a reflective prose poem. Lingua Franca Its beauty is utility: a rope bridge over
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 But here is its miracle —
It is not the language we first cried in, nor the one our mothers used to shush the night. It is not sacred, not ancestral, not carved into runestones or sung in epics.
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.
No account yet?
Create an Account
