A Perfect Language
What’s it like in a perfect garden;
how, with others, do we speak?
Love, never requires any pardon;
making heaven very unique.
Yet; how did we ever communicate;
in a kingdom of thought; alone;
reality devoid of arrogance or hate;
with Love; seated on the throne.
Thoughts were totally interconnected;
words; just thought; not spoken;
other’s thoughts; completely respected;
and promises; never broken.
Thoughts, alone; the perfect language;
with never a misunderstanding;
no one, in sorrow, would ever languish;
with Love always commanding.
Words were created as links to thought;
to allow for our constant mistakes;
whenever one, thought what not ought;
our mouth allowed us to put on the brakes.
When born as a baby in earth’s domain;
thoughts became garbled speech;
if not understood; none need complain;
a perfect language to teach.
Baby talk; as it came to become known;
resulted in endless smiles of delight;
but, seeds of language had been sown;
and glorious days; turned into night.
The perfect language was a babbling brook;
created in the heavens above;
where love, was spoken; and never mistook;
baby talk; the language of love.
Monty 11/22/23. # 1,862