At times you will relentlessly argue about the concept of language.

I'll find you upside down,
With forty textbooks lying about like souvenirs that have lost their worth,
And you'll scrunch your nose as though you deserve an explanation.

You won't understand every word.

Despite knowing every curl and every literal of every syllable this gigantic blue globe houses,
There will be some symbol you are bound to miss.

Does it not baffle you,
How the same word can mean so many things,
So many different things,
And how the same word,
Can be spoken so differently.

Rumour says the northern folks like to spit their words while they make their supper,
The southern ones have careful tongues.
The ones in the middle relish in the vibrations of their throat,
And the ones scattered about scatter a little further,
Following kites of unknown heights,
Studying the decibel of each utterance.

And then after gulping down each textbook with strange courage,
When you'll come home, armed with your knowledge,
My words will still be different from what you'd like to hear.
But they'll sound different than what you'd expect.

And hand in hand as we'll bask in our incompatible cacophony,
The earth around us will sing.