You Who Read Me Are You Sure of Understanding My Language? This line in "The Library of Babel" by Jorge Luis Borges catches my attention every time, it inspired me, inspired me to write a poem. Even though my poem follows a different theme, when I came across the essay that followed the line, it was a complete circle. Everything made sense, it is all an irony. At the end of the story, the narrator reflects on the idea that the universe is infinitely complex and incomprehensible, and that our efforts to find meaning and truth are ultimately futile. He suggests that perhaps the only way to find peace and understanding is to embrace the mystery and unknowability of the universe, rather than trying to impose our limited understandings onto it. The story leaves the reader with a sense of wonder, awe, and humility in the face of the vast mysteries of the universe. Just after I read the quote and just before I read the entire essay it hit me how sometimes things that matter get lost in translations, and how reality would be different if humans did really understand the world, each other, or maybe just their own selves. But in the end, what matters? You just come to peace with your truth. And your truth lives forever veiled in your own little universe. A universe surrounded by millions of others, and as time passes by this universe drifts apart, the truth hidden in them doesn’t clash anymore, and each universe thrives in its own bubble of veiled perceptions. Here is a poem I wrote about it:
You who read me, are you sure
That my words are not just a lure?
For though I write, it seems to me,
That you're the one who cannot see.
So take a moment, if you dare,
And try to see beyond your snare.
For though you claim to comprehend,
You fail to see the message I send.
You who read me, can't you see? ,
The meaning that is lost to thee.
For though you try to understand,
You'll never know what lies at the end.
My language, a melody unknown,
A tune that's lost when not alone.
And like a whisper in the wind,
The subtleties are hard to pin.
My language, a sunbeam on a rose,
A message only some can expose.
My language, a tapestry of thought,
Woven with threads that can't be caught.
For though I try to make it clear,
The depth of meaning might disappear.
Like the moon in a cloudy sky,
My message is obscured, as it passes by.
But still, I try, like fire on a wick,
To speak my truth, in shadows thick.
The letters on the page, they lie,
A facade to help me get by.
It's a language of shadows and despair,
A constant reminder of my nightmare.
A language that transcends the page,
And echoes beyond its cage.
For in this world of endless gloom,
The metaphors we use often assume.
A different meaning to those who know,
The depths of secrets that lie below.
It's a subtle dance between the lines,
A game of thoughts and hidden signs.
A world where words become alive,
And their meanings forever thrive.
And like a turtle in its shell,
You hide from what you know too well.
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