Mother's call 🩷

He walks in streets of his own land, Yet his tongue feels like a stranger’s hand. Words he speaks are borrowed and cold, The warmth of his mother tongue—never told. He laughs in sounds not his own, Forgetting the songs that his mother had sown. Stories of rivers, fields, and skies, Fade like echoes of forgotten cries. His heart drifts far from his roots, Ignoring the wisdom in old, simple truths. A patriot? He claims to be, Yet blind to the voice that makes him free. For language is more than words to say, It’s the soil, the sun, the wind, the clay. Without it, knowledge turns into dust, And respect, into fleeting rust. Oh, listen, friend, it’s never too late, Return to the tongue that shaped your fate. Speak it proud, let it rise, For the mother tongue never truly dies. 🌾❤️