He only spoke in silent letters

And travelled the planet

In search of the perfect word,

Embraced each place

With every ounce

Of pronunciation

 

German, Spanish, Mandarin

Armed with a notepad and pen

He asked the questions

That always lacked answers

And nobody seemed to know.

 

Seasons crawled past him

Slow as slugs

Until one day

From the back of the bar

In a pub covered in thunder

A man stepped in from the rain.

 

Without warning he staggered over

And whispered in the ear

Of the travelling linguist

"There is no word for what you need.

Language matters not

When you have nothing to say.

The perfect word cannot exist

Without the perfect thought."

 

The linguist picked up his coat

And returned to the elements.

He never spoke again.