THERE are no handles upon a languageWhereby men take hold of itAnd mark it with signs for its remembrance.It is a river, this language,Once in a thousand yearsBreaking a new courseChanging its way to the ocean.It is mountain effluviaMoving to valleysAnd from nation to nationCrossing borders and mixing.Languages die like rivers.Words wrapped round your tongue todayAnd broken to shape of thoughtBetween your teeth and lips speakingNow and todayShall be faded hieroglyphicsTen thousand years from now.Sing—and singing—rememberYour song dies and changesAnd is not here to-morrowAny more than the windBlowing ten thousand years ago.