Our language had no homeland. Only rivers and villages
kept their old names; clues for deciphering scripts.

Narrative must journey. We swapped letters full of words
made of letters made of paper made of wood.

We sang together for centuries, songs at last marked
on clay, or paper preserved only in deserts

that were once rich oases. We were buried with what we needed,
what we valued. We may not have been invaded,

we may have bought treasures from strangers,
bore their children, been loved.

We walk out of the woods into the shadow of the letters,
back into the sea. Spring tides tear the silver moon apart.