The Tongue Of My Roots

I spoke in whispers, not my own, A borrowed voice, a stranger’s tone. The words of home grew faint and far, Like fading notes of a broken guitar. Grandma’s tales, once bright and clear, Now slip away, I strain to hear. Her lullabies in our native tongue, Lie silent where they once were sung. Yet in my heart, the roots still stay, Calling me back, showing the way. For every word I choose to save, Is a seed of the culture my people gave.