I understand that of which you speak And would, if I could, research and seek To delve into that long-ago language's origin I'd be elated and feel born again To wrap my lips, teeth, and tongue Around those melodic syllables first spoken and sung By my ancestors whether Hutu or Bantu Swahili or Mende Fanti or Tutsi Yoruba or Chichewa… And the list goes infinitely on An aural mystery, sadly, foregone... Maybe they hail from the West Ghanaian Coast Or, perhaps, the Great Zimbabwe was their host Perhaps, they built those awesome pyramids & bustling towns And, even today, archaeologists still make their rounds Trying to discover how they lived and died Perhaps, I'll never know. Maybe for eternity, the ages will hide From me that original communication But, I do yearn for participation And to be fluent While congruent As I smoothly enunciate And distinctly articulate That initial grammar Whose vowels & consonants (to me) Fascinate and enamor. Yes. I understand that of which you speak And would, if I could, that Native Tongue, research and seek. Afterword.... However, sadly, and for the most part, it's been irreplaceably lost But, there is one place where it won't die nor exhaust… The only remnant lies in the Sea Island's dialectical Gullah Preserved from the slave days of mixing the tribes When, to prevent an uprising, the slavers confused the medulla With their foreign words and strange descriptions And those enslaved devised oral transcriptions In order to not be killed or beaten Or thrown overboard and shark eaten... From the Atlantic Carolinas to Georgia, they've kept their language and traditions They pass them down thru each generation, protecting their ancestral conditions.