The book was handed down to me,
In a language I cannot read.
Deprived of trusted translation,
My only solace is to weep.
The possibilities stretch endless,
For the words unknown to me.
A path to revival?
Or an alchemy of happiness?
A puzzle of incoherence?
Or deliverance from error?
Entire peoples, entire stories,
Their secrets kept from me.
Written by hands unseen,
And spoken by tongues unheard.
Forgotten wisdom,
Forever locked to me.