Dialect

Once I spoke the language of the trees,
Once I understood each word of the dying bark,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the darkness,
And shared a conversation with the match stick in my head.
Once I heard and answered all the questions of the heart that was failing when her breath started ragging and her palms became sweaty
And joined the crying of each falling dying flake of snow,
As I scribbled down these words in a flurry
Rewind the tape, repeat without hesitation
That is the pain which is same across the seven seas, throbbing like the wound festering without her exalt.

Once I spoke the language of the dying tree…
Why did it go?
How did it go?
Where did it go?