The Language before Words

The Language Before Words

When the last language fades — when alphabets loosen from the page — and scatter like leaves across water —

what will remain — is the body’s oldest scripture —

A sigh — soft as dusk — slipping from the lungs too heavy to carry —

The lump in the throat — a stubborn stone — blocking the road to sound —

The tear — slow to form — carrying the weight of the unsaid — before it dares to fall —

The ache in the heart — no hand can reach it — no blade can find it — a fire without flame — burning beneath the ribs —

The sob gathering — tight as a storm in the chest — thunder pounding the cage of bone —

The hush — before the first trembling breath — where the world holds itself still — and waits —

The letting go —

The howl — not wild — but deep — as if the bones themselves are crying —

The wail folding the body forward — shoulders swaying under the weight — heavy as winter’s last snow —

The gaze dropping — from the far horizon — to the dirt at your feet —

The pull into the knees — as though the earth itself is taking you in —

The breaking point —

A cry more than sound — a pouring out — a soul turning itself inside out — every wall falling — every last defence undone —

The first breath after drowning — uneven — trembling — alive —

The inhale deepens — drawing in something clean — something almost holy — like dawn spilling light into hollowed spaces —

A small shift — a thread of acceptance catching flame — warming the frostbitten edges —

The knowing — the release —

This is what remains — when the tongue is silent —

This is the language — no one needs to learn — because we are born fluent —

Like leaves falling softly — onto water’s waiting surface — rippling silence into song —

The final breath — steady now — steady as the earth itself —

Hansie Deysel 2025