Vixy & Tony Strange Messenger
He was exploring South America, the first to venture
there
In an age of change and reason, new discoveries
everywhere
Along the Orinoco, the great river corridor
He heard tell of a people who had fled a tribal war
It was said they chose seclusion over death or life as
slaves
But in their sheltered grotto, he found only simple
graves
And one brightly colored messenger, whom no one
understood
Spoke the language of a people who had disappeared for
good
So tell me, bold explorer, as you wandered through the
leaves,
Did you ponder unknown losses that the very Cosmos
grieves?
Was it halting? Was it flowing? Was it lilting and
divine?
Was it fearless as your native tongue, mercurial as
mine?
Would it pique a linguist's interest? Would it hold a
poet's thrall?
Did the words of one strange messenger tell you
anything at all?
He kept a careful chronicle, transcribing what he heard
Of the tribe's entire language, there remained just
forty words
Complexity and structure, how it tastes and how it
sings
Time devoured all but scattered words for scattered
things
And can we archaeologists, with bits of sound like
runes
Ever paint a living portrait of a people in their
tombs?
Could we somehow come to know them? Will we ever even
try?
Sifting through linguistic ruins for the clues to how
and why
So tell me, bold explorer, as you wandered through the
leaves,
Did you ponder unknown losses that the very Cosmos
grieves?
Was it halting? Was it flowing? Was it lilting and
divine?
Was it fearless as your native tongue, mercurial as
mine?
Would it pique a linguist's interest? Would it hold a
poet's thrall?
Do the words of one strange messenger tell us anything
at all?
To those who study history, it seems a bitter curse
The loss of language terrible, the lost potential worse
Past and future stories multiplied a thousandfold,
Vanished out of history and never to be told
Were they beautiful and gentle? Would they call us
friend or foe?
What wisdom did they live by? What secrets did they
know?
It's a symphony reduced to what a single bird can sing
The forest lost their language, and they lost
everything
So tell me, bold explorer, as you wandered through the
leaves,
Did you ponder unknown losses that the very Cosmos
grieves?
Was it halting? Was it flowing? Was it lilting and
divine?
Was it fearless as your native tongue, mercurial as
mine?
Would it pique a linguist's interest? Would it hold a
poet's thrall?
Do the words of one strange messenger tell us anything
at all?
