If this is a lament

They speak of a land that never was,
a non-existent tongue.
There is no utterance,
no words.
If we're put on earth
to understand each other –
who can make sense of death?
Explain how the mountains stole breath,
or translate the darkness
that has fallen?
Who can say what burgeons
in a child's dream?
Flapping out of an ancient tale,
birds' wings bear down
on me – and skin's
akin to stone
as the old women used to say.
When darkness falls
beyond the mountains,
the people I remember look to me
in pain. My words are elegy.
If this is a lament,
we haven't even
begun to cry.