Fäith Mourns A Dead Language
misplaced Fäith finds home in gutters on gray rainy days and sits transcribing mandinka as best she can from the runes in a tattered black book of verse--once her's her father's and his father's before him--but the rain sheets down washing characters from each page in rivulets of old ink old lead old tears 'till she can't quite discern the hand can't quite hold the words anymore.
