I Teach My Child |
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Gemino H. Abad |
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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. |
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