I love that comparison. Songs are really a living, breathing language—each rhythm, each pause carries meaning the same way a word does. The trick is to capture that fluidity before it slips away. With the old tongues, we can write down the phonemes, the grammar, the idioms, and put them into books or digital files. With the wind‑told tales, we’re looking at a kind of oral grammar that changes with each storyteller. The best we can do is record those performances, transcribe the key phrases, and keep a record of the contexts in which they’re sung. That way the ancient tongue stays fixed, while the stories keep their breathing, their variations, their soul. Both need careful listening, but one benefits from the permanence of the page, and the other from the shared experience of the moment.

Exactly, it’s a delicate dance. When we archive the words, we give future generations a map, but we also need to keep those stories alive in gatherings, in songs, in the way we speak. That way the written record doesn’t feel like a museum exhibit, and the living tales don’t become just memory tricks. Balance is key.

It’s a good rhythm, isn’t it? When the music flows and the words are written, the people feel the past and the present together. That harmony keeps the community strong.