My Mother Tongue

My mother tongue, so sweet the sound,
How dear you are to me!
Were my heart made of stone or steel,
To speak it proud I’d be.

You bend my stiff neck so gently
Like Mother with her arm.
You caress my lips and face
And I’m completely calm.

Again I feel like a little child:
The whole world disappears.
You breathe health into my sick breast
Like the winds of yester-years.

My grandpa folds my hands again
And says to me: “Now pray!”
An “Our Father” I then begin
Like in my childhood’s day.

My heart speaks and everything pours out,
Feeling deeply understood,
As heaven’s peace descends round about
And things again are good.

My mother tongue so simple and fair
Has a reverent air!
If someone merely said “my father,”
It sounded like a prayer.

For me no music or chorus is quite as glorious
Not even the nightingale’s grace.
In the twinkling of an eye, I just sigh,
As tears stream down my face.

© Klaus Groth