The bird died long ago. 

Or maybe it flew away and you never knew. 

What you are treasuring. Cherishing. Admiring. Is its plumage. 

Caressing it everyday, using its each feather carefully as a bookmark to remind you of a page written in a tongue no one speaks to you anymore. To you. For you. With you. No one. Never again. 

The tongue is is better forgotten, keeping it alive by speaking it everyday is just. Naive.