The worst thing you can do to a language is to write on a global platform with wrong orthography. A language correctly spoken but poorly written is on the edge of a cliff waiting for a little push to fall to the dark valley of extinction.
A weekend poem for these unpatriotic legends.
In this age of digital pen and ink,
Where language flows in streams like ripples,
I pause to ponder, to interlink,
With those who write their mother's script, entwined in echoes.
Oh, the souls that wander far and wide,
Across borders and seas, words intertwined,
Seeking solace where languages reside,
But tangled, in strange orthography misaligned.
I see them stumble upon the page,
Their mother's tongue held close, yet masked,
In a cloak of letters caught in a maze,
Misspelled and misshapen, a linguistic task.
Their hearts, filled with reverence and pride,
But their hands, oh, clumsy upon the keys,
Unleashing a jumble, cast far and wide,
Yet still, pursuing the whispering breeze.
They clutch dictionaries, their guiding light,
Those secret codes, their sacred key,
Their efforts, noble, to reunite,
In fervent hopes to set their language free.
Oh, how I marvel at their bold pursuit,
To capture the essence, rhymes of old,
To resonate truths in each syllable's root,
Yet grapple with sounds hard to uphold.
How beautiful, their persistence imbued,
Wrapped in brave intentions, resilient souls,
Their love for words, forever pursued,
Trying to fill gaps, where language often falls.
In strange orthography, they navigate,
Finding meaning where others may stray,
To them, let no judgments or doubts dictate,
For their struggle echoes a journey astray.
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