My Mind's Native Tongue

Too often I cannot say what I wish to say;
There is no word that is the body of just what I feel,
Or an abstract concept escapes and goes flying away,
Or slithers out of my grasp like a living and desperate eel.
How do I describe the feeling of sunlight on leaves,
Or the way that my heart hopelessly, heartlessly grieves
When the sunlight fades behind clouds of bright gray?

Too often the words escape and go flying away,
And then I am left to make do with words less fair
Than should exist, if English said what I wanted to say.
Workaday words are not enough; they should be there,
The words that I want, flashing with deep meaning!
They should be there, the words fair beyond dreaming!
There should be words to describe the feelings that flay,

The frustration of never knowing just what I want to say.
I have found my own, but can anyone else know my fyar
In language, or does that whole concept go flying away?
Will anyone even hear the word, and think it is fair?
And how can one say it is "scientific interest and knowledge,
Fascination which the mind alone can summon or pledge?"
That explains nothing of how the interest drives me half-fey,

And "scientific" is not the word that goes flying away,
Just barely escaping my tumbling, wolf-puppy's leap.
After all, what does the word "scientific" really say
About an art that haunts me until my dreams cannot sleep,
But wake and go chasing about my head until I write?
"Scientific" has its own wings, its own meaning and path of flight.
It balances the world on too neat, too boring a tray,

And only fyar really says all the things that I want to say,
And embodies them, too, in a fair and a glowing white form.
But then others' comprehension will go flying away,
As they frown at me, and think I am suffering some sort of brainstorm.
No, I want to tell them, I am merely speaking my mind's native tongue.
But to them my native language is what I learned when young,
English, and the other is only a toy that I invented for my play.

And how their hearts would shudder at me, and turn away,
If I said that I knew fully what it meant to want to chatal,
To enjoy the existence of arienda- friendship, they would say-
And to hope someday to feel the burning wonder of ryal.
The touch of lis I would know, and I would see loson;
Jacena to my friends, and against the world nafarilisiton.
But I will never greet someone in the spring with aralie,

And they will never know all that I meant to, wanted to say,
When the words keep leaping and soaring and flying away.