Wounds in my mother tongue

December 19th, 2023.

There are words native to my mother’s mouth.
The ones who seldom leave the town and 
the ones she sings out with her heart,
 out loud– aglow, and dancing, with zest and life.

In the language my mother speaks, there are
words plenty. Some of which she spits out 
along her wrath–sent in exile! For vile 
doesn’t belong to the holiness of her body.

And others she grits through her grinding
teeth with clear agitation beneath. And 
sometimes, while digging fingernails into 
her flesh, some of them she seethes.

And then, those she swallows before
ever forming a sentence–alongside 
her sorrow. My mother carefully collects
all of her words, plucking some

From the gardens of her lost glee.
Picking others off the ground, catching 
stars tangled in trees, dusting some
off from her old notebooks and diaries,

And finally, taking out from that dusty
old trunk, those passed on by her mother. 
And put them all onto my tongue.
The words threading into phrases,

Into verses, sentences–weaving a story,
melting in my mouth– like poetry.
And I translate myself for you, word
to word. So you may have a fair chance

To understand. But sometimes, replacing
My words with yours, I forget my mother.
While mapping my language onto your
Understanding, I lose its taste.

The words my mother compiled for me,
in them are a few for which your dictionaries 
And your thesauruses offer nothing in return.
So at the expense of your understanding,

I hope you understand: why I wouldn’t trade
nor share some of my words– and all of my
suffering– for your compassion. For my suffering 
is one such poorly translated word–

Even my mother’s tongue barely suffices.

Although it's true, it is equally true that there are feelings you can only feel in your mother language. Take "خلش" (Khalish), for instance—a sentiment that became a poem amidst attempts at translation.