Aftertaste of Lost Language

It is not the iron that bites or the ancient salt,
nor the bitter flower the air designs.
It is a shadow on the palate, an oblique path,
where the extinguished voice still reigns.

A lexicon of ash, broken syllables,
a vocabulary with no echo left.
They are the resonances that were loved,
a mute alphabet, a feeble weave.

A rustling of roots beneath the tongue,
an ancient knowledge that escapes and denies itself.
Yet remains the soul that fades away,
the distant melody that still prays.