It was a difficult time for the islands.
Most of the tribes wanted to go to the moon
but had to decide on which language.
This led to many violent deaths, the rape
of fabulous dreams, so that only the elders
slept at night, while the young people danced
to keep awake, twisting their bodies this way
and that accent. At the bars they ordered
syntax at random, drank wildly, all tongues
in abandon. The bolder ones expelled grammar
as they did the smoke from pidgin tobacco.
Phonemes were murdered in the dark, contractions
extended while the most personal of pronouns
were roped up and beaten to an antecedent’s pulp.
Italics went out the window when phrases were written.
Nouns were emasculated, verbs cross-conjugated,
according to the dowry for protest. Divorce of lips
from hearts and homes forced the weakest into water,
there to struggle with moans before drowning.
The strongest made it back to shore, succored by kings
of one speech and one speech alone. Everyone, everyone
was led up many towers of perfect communication
until they reached that silent golden orb in the sky
they once called by many names, but now one and the same.
When they looked down past clouds of syllables with no shame
they saw their earth as a sad source of differences now faded
into echoes of swords brandished in utter defense of words.