Home is where Grandma bakes her bread,
The scent of flour, the warmth it spreads.
My language lives not just in name,
But whispers soft from whence it came. 

It tells of words both spoke and penned,
Of stories that refuse to end.
Like flour measured, sifted fine,
Each phrase a thread in woven line. 

Grandma’s recipe, kept with care,
A secret written in the air.
You take its base, then knead and mold,
Twist it, turn it—new stories told.

Be it tart or cake or pie you make,
Each handprint leaves its own sweet wake.
For language too is shaped by hand,
Its form as wide as one can stand.

Not black or white, but hues that blend,
A patchwork quilt that has no end.
It colors how you see the earth,
Its many shades define its worth.

Within its folds lie land and kin,
The roots of where we all begin.
And maybe too, it holds the part
That binds my soul to Europe's heart.