There are no handles upon a language <br />Whereby men take hold of it <br />And mark it with signs for its remembrance. <br />It is a river, this language, <br />Once in a thousand years <br />Breaking a new course <br />Changing its way to the ocean. <br />It is mountain effluvia <br />Moving to valleys <br />And from nation to nation <br />Crossing borders and mixing. <br />Languages die like rivers. <br />Words wrapped round your tongue today <br />And broken to shape of thought <br />Between your teeth and lips speaking <br />Now and today <br />Shall be faded hieroglyphics <br />Ten thousand years from now. <br />Sing--and singing--remember <br />Your song dies and changes <br />And is not here to-morrow <br />Any more than the wind <br />Blowing ten thousand years ago.<br /><br />Carl Sandburg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/languages/
