I wonder what it must have felt like to be the first person
That dipped sounds in ink or pigment and trapped them upon rock or parchment.
Which clever mind then chose to call those confined sounds letters?
Was it the same person, who after shuffling those noises around together,
Like hand-picking chocolates for a selection box,
Goes on to name them words?
Forever binding them to man’s growing intelligence.
To be continuously defined, categorised and studied.
Pressing the true nature of sounds deeper and deeper into the ink black, blue or red.
Yet I laugh with what is called irony
For however much man strives to contain and control those words, letters and sounds.
They will always be released and escape our dominance in the end.
Our mind, tongue and voice are eternal keys to set such communication free.
We will always long to taste those vocal treats.
They are indeed the chocolates that are so delicious to taste
And feel smooth as they flow into our ears.
Such is the reason why oral tales of adventure, horror and laughter around the fire were born.
Such is the reason why young men in leotards and rapier sword serenade fair maidens trapped in towers.
When sounds are freed from our mouths they glide like butterflies.
So delicate at first upon our tongue yet with the will of our mind they grow stronger.
And fly out.
Their wings beating with meaning.
Their vibrant colours displaying the power and emotion behind our voice.
As they flutter on our breath from one ear to the other.
What we call language is the graceful dance of countless butterflies.
We attempt to keep them with us
Dipped in ink, pressed onto paper and bound in hardback.
Yet we can only ever truly enjoy them when set free.
To continue the great orchestra that is life.