Its beauty is utility: a rope bridge over a gorge, a splint on a broken leg, a key that turns in a hundred different locks, none of them its own.
It is imperfect by design: verbs stripped of their subjunctive dreams, nouns abandoned in the wrong gender, accents smoothed down like stones in a river. lingua franca
It is not beautiful, not in the way Italian is beautiful, or the precise cruelty of German, or the musical lilt of Yoruba. Its beauty is utility: a rope bridge over
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. And maybe that is enough
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.