“Language is natural”, they say
As if there isn’t a few drops of blood
on every line I write 
As if my poems were created
out of thin air
not early mornings
not sleepless nights
As if I have never cried over 
the mediocrity of my work

“Language is natural”, they tell me
And suddenly
My head feels heavy
My hands tremble 
My arms feel sore
As I think back
to all the words
I so carefully put together
but got me nowhere
	
“Language is natural”, they yell
Not realising 
they are silencing
all the people who landed me a hand
and all the books that got me here

“Language is natural”, they insist
As if I am
so effortlessly
bringing words together
crafting them 
out of breath

[Luísa Tibana, Coimbra, Spring 2021]