My fourth Language: It is Golden


I am fluent at my fourth language

I am fluent at silence

My silence is a Pollsmoor prison, Robben Island

It has taught me how to train parts of myself

That sounds like a faulty engine

Or sometimes I really feel it has made me

That faulty engine


Speaking is a civil war in my mouth

So I tend to raise a white flag so I won’t be hurt

Silence is the car I am forced to drive

Because no one around me seems to have a license

They all seem to be too wavy for my ship

Too outspoken to hear my thoughts

So I capsize my words to see if the fish would understand, they don’t,

Silence ballets into a dance to listen to the acceptance of my body

It sculptures into love to see if people would accept it, they don’t


My fluency begins to sandcastle in my dreams

Which is to say that my night is quiet

My shadow begins to disappear because it thinks I have lost my breath

My shadow stands straight to check if this language has knocked me out

To check if I have tapped out or tapped in or to see if I am tapping


Everybody understands my fourth language

But the problem is that no one understands my dialect.


Photo by Brunel Johnson on Unsplash

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Author: Musa Obed

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