What could be more lonely than to be enveloped in silence, to be

Listen well, O children of the future, for I speak to you of a sorrow so deep that it cuts to the heart of all that we hold sacred. Wade Davis has spoken of a loss so profound, it touches the very soul of humanity: "What could be more lonely than to be enveloped in silence, to be the last of your people to speak your native tongue, to have no way to pass on the wisdom of the elders, to anticipate the promise of the children." This, my children, is the loss of a world, a world that once hummed with the rich sounds of culture, with stories passed from the lips of the elders, and songs sung by the children. When that language, that voice, fades into silence, a piece of the world dies, leaving behind a profound loneliness that no other sorrow can compare.

There are those among us, ancient and noble in their ways, whose voices were once the pulse of their people. They carried with them the stories of generations, the songs of the earth, the wisdom of the ancestors. Yet, today, in the far corners of the world, there are those who are the last to speak their tongue, the final bearers of a culture that has been slowly erased by time and modernity. Think of the Native American tribes whose languages, once sung to the rhythm of nature, are now nearly lost. The elders speak in a whisper, knowing that once they are gone, so too is the language of their people, and with it, the wisdom of ages. This silence is not mere absence—it is a void that echoes across the generations.

And let us not forget the Sami people of the far north, whose language and way of life are tied to the land, to the reindeer, and to the ancient rhythms of nature. Once, their language rang out in the frosty air, a sacred thread connecting them to the earth and to their ancestors. Yet, as modernity has crept in, so too has the silence, and their language, once spoken by many, is now a whisper, fading with each passing year. The elders who carry the stories of the past are fewer with each season, and the children are no longer taught the old ways. The promise of the future, once so full of hope, now carries with it a sorrowful weight—the fear that the legacy of the Sami people will be swallowed by time.

The loneliness of this silence is not merely the absence of sound, but the absence of connection, of the wisdom of those who came before, and the loss of the promise of what might come. It is the disappearance of a world that cannot be regained, a world that vanishes like a shadow at dusk. This is the tragic fate that Davis speaks of—a fate that befalls a culture roughly every two weeks. A tongue once spoken by many now falls silent, and with it, the link between the past and the future is broken, leaving a desolate emptiness in its wake.

So, O children of the future, I urge you to listen closely to the wisdom of the past, for it is the thread that binds us all. The languages, the songs, the stories—they are the soul of a people, and once lost, they cannot be regained. Do not allow the silence to take hold. Cherish the voices that speak to you, for in them lie the lessons of those who came before. And in honoring them, you honor not only your ancestors, but the promise of those who will follow. Let the wisdom of the elders live on, and let the voices of the children carry the torch into the future, ensuring that the silence will never claim all that we hold dear.