It is not the language we first cried in, nor the one our mothers used to shush the night. It is not sacred, not ancestral, not carved into runestones or sung in epics.
But here is its miracle — in that flattened, fractured, simplified speech, someone says I am afraid , and you understand not because the grammar is right but because the need is universal. lingua franca
And maybe that is enough. Because before poetry, before prayer, before the love letter and the curse, there was this: two people, no shared cradle, and the desperate, generous act of making meaning anyway. It is not the language we first cried