Lines of mystery,

 

The page glows bright,
but the signs are strange.
The words twist like rivers,
flowing in an unknown range.

Lines of mystery,
dancing in curves and strokes,
I stare and sigh—
my mind chokes.

Hate it? Maybe.
But truly, it’s fear—
to be lost in meaning,
when meaning is near.

I press my palms,
whisper in the air,
“Lord, I am small,
but You are there.”

Letters like mountains,
tall and proud,
I climb with trembling hope,
not loud.

My tongue can’t shape
their sound or song,
but my heart hums softly—
“I’ll learn, before long.”

Confusion burns,
like fire in my chest.
Why must wisdom
come with such a test?

Yet somewhere deep,
a calmness grows—
perhaps even this struggle
the Lord knows.

Each stroke, each sign,
is a secret door,
and prayer is the key
to understand more.

“Help me, Lord,”
I cry again—
to find the light
inside the pain.

For learning humbles,
teaching bends the pride;
and even lost in symbols,
Your grace will guide.

The page no longer mocks—
it calls instead,
“Be patient, child,
with what you dread.”

So I bow my head,
and start once more,
the mystery of language,
my faith at the core.