I wish I knew Persian,
To read what Rumi wrote,
His real feelings,
To feel the real essence,
Of his emotions,
And not the translated versions of it.
I wish I knew Arabic,
So I could read Mahmoud Darwish’s raw emotions,
When he wrote about meeting his lover after a year and a war,
And the war would only end when they met,
And feel every word as it pierced my heart more than they did when I read it in English.
I wish I knew all the languages of the world,
To read, to speak, to express,
Every bit of all the emotions I feel,
That I cannot express in my own mother tongue,
For maybe my mother tongue never taught me,
The emotions of another language.