Díla sí oret emik būvāla ai ý sauivon yalatí, síla Unirí hinumesi gē ým Umadîme. Ý lanvus evik denatí ai būkvē sauganas, ai síla Lanurí ulofethasi gē ýnna venvusanna. Ai Bariû, ýron Firranaron, afāmesi grenhilan olūrilan nesí motaki ý Umadîn. Ai kí Manía emik sidotiví. Ai síla Lanurí retenothasi. Ai Dereseî, yūnlēxa Bariûron, kvē fala naiono, afāmesi ger sílan arksýn, ai Manía emik nakāsiví kvē acsýs ai ger ethik keniasivýs. Ai Xoniû, dauxa Bariûron, malāmesi ileth xiagothanē ai repolemesi kovahil dona výgothanē. Ai eŋis sím saugothilame baŋe sílam olūrilam, renxila navāgothila urithasi. Ai Amoseî, yūnlēxa Xoniûron, gē fala lēviro, afāmesi ger sílan foretihýn arksýn, ai fal sanāmesi odsalonanē vis sílam acsýs, ai fā ethik síla denusý ai dona aliner emik sí sausi-donvē saugonūr. Ai kí Rhulhiû, gedoxa Xoniûron ai Amoseîron, maracāmesi sílan gelagothilan sírí xiagothilarí ai síla tranyasila danāthasi ýlan grentē grendaxacanē ai fā ethik síla mayasila. Ai eŋis sílam mayasin, nel auganāmesi gekosýn ai velotihýn acsýn. Ai síla vōnyasila gārkathasi hu sílam mayasin nesí sanāki donas sí alindan. Ai Lantariû, gedoxa Bariûron ai Dereseîron, repolemesi sílan lanhilan saugonūrilan palahil ai ynko nel auganāmesi dolonhilan saunogilan. Ai síla stanūrila galathasi tavē sínna saugonūranna nesí sidoki Manían. Ai Deldariû, colka gedoxa Bariûron ai Dereseîron, leromesi ileth eŋis sílam savagothilam Maníaron, ai ynko nel tentamesi sí derhē anlýgoth. Ai nel afāmesi colka in tūnlesan nesí noski traūki sílan xiagothilan mē dona gelagothilas, ai ynko baŋgothemesi dona bēogothin. Ai díla nel minumesi tentaki ai leroki, síla bēogothila emik kvohila ai asavhila. Ai nel don sonemesi. Ai Bariû sūmarāmesi sílam Uniris nesí hinumesi vis in tennagothanna Xoniûron ai nesí opoki eth in grenhime esyename síron genohinoron gonotharon. Ai ynko don opothasi ai síla Unirí grennýnathasi kvē ýs saunýnas Deldariûron. Kí, díla don minuthasi ý grennýnan, Bariû tenomesi Lantariûs: “dia gedoxan, dia gedoxan, mē sí ranāsivis leraufas, ýs gadutis audanēnas sírí stanūrilarí ai ýs denavusas síron palahiron, vu enalen sí baŋanuke dē gel.” Ai ger, nine Deldariû, inhothasi. Kí Deldariû delomesi Bariûme, ai nes veretomesi, “Ai ye, kuxan? Ý saunýn dí cōmēcoti eve dia leraufahū. Vā eve dia resanog?” Ai Bariû nes tenomesi, “Dia gedoxan, baudí sanānoli vu eve resanog kile. Vura lerauf eme vura resanog!” Ai kí, Deldariû bociramasi ai relavus danāvesi nela seliran, ai nel erepomesi hu sílam Unirim ai retenomesi ýnna lartivonanna Maníaron. Ai Bariû ne sidomesi, sūnītihil ý lanvusan eŋis ým selirame nela gedoxaron.
Transliteration
Díla sí oret emik būvāla ai ý sauivon yalatí, síla Unirí hinumesi gē ým Umadîme. Ý lanvus evik denatí ai būkvē sauganas, ai síla Lanurí ulofethasi gē ýnna venvusanna. Ai Bariû, ýron Firranaron, afāmesi grenhilan olūrilan nesí motaki ý Umadîn. Ai kí Manía emik sidotiví. Ai síla Lanurí retenothasi. Ai Dereseî, yūnlēxa Bariûron, kvē fala naiono, afāmesi ger sílan arksýn, ai Manía emik nakāsiví kvē acsýs ai ger ethik keniasivýs. Ai Xoniû, dauxa Bariûron, malāmesi ileth xiagothanē ai repolemesi kovahil dona výgothanē. Ai eŋis sím saugothilame baŋe sílam olūrilam, renxila navāgothila urithasi. Ai Amoseî, yūnlēxa Xoniûron, gē fala lēviro, afāmesi ger sílan foretihýn arksýn, ai fal sanāmesi odsalonanē vis sílam acsýs, ai fā ethik síla denusý ai dona aliner emik sí sausi-donvē saugonūr. Ai kí Rhulhiû, gedoxa Xoniûron ai Amoseîron, maracāmesi sílan gelagothilan sírí xiagothilarí ai síla tranyasila danāthasi ýlan grentē grendaxacanē ai fā ethik síla mayasila. Ai eŋis sílam mayasin, nel auganāmesi gekosýn ai velotihýn acsýn. Ai síla vōnyasila gārkathasi hu sílam mayasin nesí sanāki donas sí alindan. Ai Lantariû, gedoxa Bariûron ai Dereseîron, repolemesi sílan lanhilan saugonūrilan palahil ai ynko nel auganāmesi dolonhilan saunogilan. Ai síla stanūrila galathasi tavē sínna saugonūranna nesí sidoki Manían. Ai Deldariû, colka gedoxa Bariûron ai Dereseîron, leromesi ileth eŋis sílam savagothilam Maníaron, ai ynko nel tentamesi sí derhē anlýgoth. Ai nel afāmesi colka in tūnlesan nesí noski traūki sílan xiagothilan mē dona gelagothilas, ai ynko baŋgothemesi dona bēogothin. Ai díla nel minumesi tentaki ai leroki, síla bēogothila emik kvohila ai asavhila. Ai nel don sonemesi. Ai Bariû sūmarāmesi sílam Uniris nesí hinumesi vis in tennagothanna Xoniûron ai nesí opoki eth in grenhime esyename síron genohinoron gonotharon. Ai ynko don opothasi ai síla Unirí grennýnathasi kvē ýs saunýnas Deldariûron. Kí, díla don minuthasi ý grennýnan, Bariû tenomesi Lantariûs: “dia gedoxan, dia gedoxan, mē sí ranāsivis leraufas, ýs gadutis audanēnas sírí stanūrilarí ai ýs denavusas síron palahiron, vu enalen sí baŋanuke dē gel.” Ai ger, nine Deldariû, inhothasi. Kí Deldariû delomesi Bariûme, ai nes veretomesi, “Ai ye, kuxan? Ý saunýn dí cōmēcoti eve dia leraufahū. Vā eve dia resanog?” Ai Bariû nes tenomesi, “Dia gedoxan, baudí sanānoli vu eve resanog kile. Vura lerauf eme vura resanog!” Ai kí, Deldariû bociramasi ai relavus danāvesi nela seliran, ai nel erepomesi hu sílam Unirim ai retenomesi ýnna lartivonanna Maníaron. Ai Bariû ne sidomesi, sūnītihil ý lanvusan eŋis ým selirame nela gedoxaron.
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I would like to share a particular peculiarity from own my personal set of glossopoetics: the creation of allegorical languages. This is something which I have developed throughout my glossopoeic career and something which I did not intentionally set out to do. It just happened that that’s what I concluded I must be doing, and from there I have just been rolling with it. I do believe also that it is a type of glossopoetic which has, as of yet, been left unexplored, and one which can only be done having a less linguistic or material focus on language, and a greater emphasis on symbolism. Perhaps in revealing it, someone could do it much better! An allegory in literature is a symbolic device which is representational of an idea or character. Perhaps one of the best examples of allegory in literature is C.S. Lewis’ use of symbolism to explain basic Christian morals to children. Aslan the Lion being representational of God, Christ and the Holy Spirit throughout the Chronicles of Narnia is an example of allegory. Another famous example is, of course, George Orwell’s Animal Farm, depicting the inevitable fate of the 1917 Russian Revolution and the ensuing totalitarian evil of Communism in the form and shape of animals. Ingenious, but however can allegory be applied in a glossopoeic context? The answer lies in using linguistic devices and realities derived from our world and applying them within the structure of a glossopoeic creation. It can be applied within a language itself, that is to say, little linguistic intricacies which are representational of an idea or flavour, or with a whole language taken as the allegory; the most mature forms of this style is to try and combine the two. The secret seems to me to be to try and implement the allegory in such a way that it does not upset the aesthetics of the language. The allegory used in glossopoeia is not the same as in literature. It would be difficult to represent the idea of happiness through the subjunctive for instance, so that is not way glossopoeic allegory can be achieved. However, it is perfectly possible to represent, for example, majesty or historical development or a people. By allegory, I do not mean the imitation of a language in the form of another family, for instance, the so-called “romlangs” which is where the grammar of another language family has been put into the context of a romance language’s phonetics. Of course, allegorical glossopoeia might include the creation of new, fictional language as part of another existing branch, but as long as the allegorical intentions are there and apparent. I have done this with my Romance language Isparian which is set an allegory. However, I don’t know, this is the first piece I have written on this, I could well be wrong. Anyway, what I want to do now is show some examples of where I have applied allegory in my languages. Hopyratian was the first language I ever created when I started, aged eleven, designing it as a code. However, as I got older and my linguistic abilities started to adapt and develop, I found I could make the language more complicated. Through having studied Esperanto, I decided to have a regular, agglutinative way of verbs, all with the infinitive -ki and with six tenses. Noun cases, which I discovered a little later on, were added as soon as I could figure out how they worked. The language became more complex, with more words and more refined grammar. The phonology of Hopyratian is raw, that is to say, purely my instinctual preferences from when I was younger, and so look and feel almost a little mismatched or jumbled. There are hidden attempts at reform, subtle details that pertain to my developing knowledge of linguistics, and of course, especially in the Romanised orthography, a degree of childish inexperience. For example, final -i realised as [aj] or the vastly complicated participle system. By accident it seems however, Hopyratian is an allegory of my creative process, not just in glossopoeia but in everything. It is full of jumping in at the deep end and wild attempts to achieve things about which I had only the faintest idea, which is what I tend to do in my approach to life in general. I have made no more attempts at reforming the language, and have decided on purpose to keep it as an allegory of my creative process; I purposely it use it for testing our new glossopoetics such as writing my first epic poem. My Eldich languages, however, were somewhat more refined. True, High Eldich has also been part of my creative process, but much less representational of it. Rather than kept, those infantile elements were abolished long ago! High Eldich, in particular, was an attempt to create something elegant, but maintain the majesty of what is connoted with ancient languages. To represent this majesty, I used a detailed case system: To continue with this overall motif of majesty, I have also a system of apophony and mutation, along with bipersonal verbal conjugation. The attempt here was to be representative of ancient languages. The majestic case system of Latin and the beautiful yet slow elegance of Ancient Greek were meant to be represented in both my choice of grammatical structure and the phonetics. But the allegory of Eldich goes even further, since this epic language was set to become a series of daughter languages. These languages (as are the people who speak them) and their development are meant to serve as an allegory to the Romance languages. Here is a representation of the evolution of the High Eldich word denethas “different” into the daughter languages: On an individualistic level too, the languages have been shaped deliberately in a direction to make them sound and appear more like individual Romance languages. For example, Vasorian is meant to serve an allegory of Portuguese and therefore similarly uses nasalisation and the adoption of the -te to be pronounced as [ts] was a push in this direction as well. Inside the verbal paradigms, the Romance flavour is also present. The construction of the Eldich languages was my first conscious use of allegory in a glossopoetic way. The idea was to also demonstrate my development of knowledge in the field of historical linguistic to apply sound change rules and to produce these final results. My most conscious effort to create a truly allegorical language was the invention of a language which I called Mermish, purely for the context sake. It was intended for a friend from the Philippines and who enjoys “mermaiding”. I decided that the creation of this Mermish language was going to be an exercise in my allegorical and representational style. I chose sounds and phonetics which were based on Tagalog and also with the idea of representing the sound of waves and gushes from the sea. Gemination, postalveolar fricatives and voiceless sounds were all adopted to help give off this sound. I remember being inspired by an example of Ancient North Martian. The prosody was made to be pitch, the pattern of which would depend on the mood of the speaker. Anger adopted a pattern of pitch which crashed, to represent a choppy sea. The grammar was built along the lines of Tagalog naturally including an Austronesian alignment utilising a trigger system. The orthography I wanted to be like the ebbs and flow of ocean waves. I made it an abjad in which each word is written as a continuous stream and the vowels were written as if shell patterns: Chachawa o imoja, Te chamiwa na’a awattema. Penkawa ni tanissa, Tolwawa tolwa sorema. Mi sanopim am keke, Attema wentopim am faso. I essajawa se’am kara Jotastottewisim na’i essas Mi pereniwa ni meñi kan kara; Ketin ni, ketawim i. Sena renkopim i kore sim... Mi pereño sim o imoja. Rujama sarawa ni weri sim, Kos marisen fi’a misore. Makiji om a maki sim mi Chachali o pa’am kara O lo tesalam i chela Mi wa nalimom o... My latest attempt to explore allegory through language has come from my interest in both the Jewish and the Roma peoples. Reasons for this interest can be – and in fact are – discussed elsewhere, however, my most recent glossopoeic has included the development of language which is allegorical of both the Jews and the Romani, and the people who speak it are meant to be an allegory of them both. Indeed, as I have already discussed, the creation of a language is the simultaneous creation of a people. My Gobladian language, or to them known as en-Ilitze “the Holy speech” was constructed with the idea of both peoples in mind. The inspiration of the first triroot j-l-m “travel” was inspired by the first lines of the Romani International Anthem Djelem Djelem. The language was also spring-boarded by many ideas which I had cobbled together in a bid to create it before. The phonology was more or less derived from Romani, aspirated consonants and especially the lovely [d͡ʒ]. I decided to leave the retroflex consonants aside since I felt like it would clutter the language too much, and I opted for an alveolar trill [r] despite both Romani (some dialects) and Hebrew possessing the uvular [ʀ]. The Romanised orthography was designed to be similar to that of both, representing the aspirate consonants as ph [ph], th [th] and kh [kh] and I always loved the particular Hebrew transliteration of [x] as ch rather than kh. Also, I thought tz for [t͡s] was much more exciting than ts. The vowels are six, the five pure vowels along with front rounded vowel [y] because it adds something unique. The orthography is written very much like Hebrew, but since the Romani lack their own script other than in Latin or Cyrillic, I took influence from the Devanagari as Romani is a member of the Indo-Aryan family of languages. The grammar is meant to be representative of Hebrew in most cases, but also is individual in others. The basis of all words is a triliteral root, from which are derived words. For example, from kh- d-r “read” we can derive akhadra “book” and lekhdir “library”, or even more subtly from the root v-k “flow” we derive vaki “water”, ivok “breath” and even lavkena “freedom”. There is the use of state: definite and indefinite forms for nouns within their classes, and, common to both Hebrew and Romani, masculine and feminine genders. Following the flavour of both the language phonologically, I derived words such as elesh “behold” and gitana “song”. The whole experience of creating this language has been about the pleasure of the aesthetics, but also producing something allegorical and representational since that is what I aim for.
I wish to continue exploring the application of allegorical glossopoetics. I think there’s great potential for not just a personal exploration of creativity, but also a way in which we can explore language differently. There is so much denied to us through the linguistic, pragmatic focus of glossopoeia which we are unable to investigate for the sake of it being unscientific. More glossopoetics like allegory and representation can give us greater insight into the nature of language. One thing I would like to pursue and develop is harnessing the ideas of Element Theory and phonetic symbolism. For instance, utilising the |I| element, which in the theory denotes a high vowel or a palatal. Why could this not serve also to denote either something to do with diminutives or something cold? Is it our notion of Slavic people that their languages sound cold? Or could be it be the use of palatals which give them their icy edge? It is these questions I wish to further explore, not through linguistics, but through glossopoeia, which allows us to do so.
en-Julumen The Journey
A Maltzanit! Elesh in-Letzeni! Oh Maltzani! Behold Letzen! Avad mat kolofit esh lakvit! Soon to be happy and free! Ezyn chartantem Urtudun! Forever escaping the destruction! A Letzenem! Eleshem! Eleshem! Oh, our Letzen! Behold us, behold us! Od jalamza tzote pen-dromena There he travelled far along the road, n-maltzani sabeli esh ha-lakvena The hopeful Maltzani and full of freedom. Zajarza tishyat kolofet pen-elshentz He saw happy women in the forest Kon lamadzet azan en-afessentz, Dancing upon the grass En-lijalmen Letzen hozeli talaze The garden of great Letzen shone Elesh en-zoma maltzanes kalaze! Behond, the time came to the Maltzani A Maltzanit! Elesh in-Letzeni! Oh Maltzani! Behold Letzen! Avad mat kolofit esh lakvit! Soon to be happy and free! Ezyn chartantem Urtudun! Forever escaping the destruction! A Letzenem! Eleshem! Eleshem! Oh, our Letzen! Behold us, behold us! En-jefom padeno les rathaza Our ancient home called to him En-Izmanam maltzane les lagaza. Our Holy Land pulled him. Vaky hetlenys bach lofeshyat, The shining waters under bridges Ipelmmy olgunys zen mittat. The long paths through trees In-maltzanin mindas en-erezjaras The Maltzani fell in love with the sight En-julumen lekoni les barachas. The journey to where he was to go opened to him A Maltzanit! Elesh in-Letzeni! Oh Maltzani! Behold Letzen! Avad mat kolofit esh lakvit! Soon to be happy and free! Ezyn chartantem Urtudun! Forever escaping the destruction! A Letzenem! Eleshem! Eleshem! Oh, our Letzen! Behold us, behold us! If by now it wasn’t already apparent, I dislike the word “conlang” and its derivatives. For a while now, I have been edging away from using the term to describe our craft in favour of the older and far more beautiful coinage of glossopoeia. “Conlang” was a disappointment for me when I first came across it, but for lack of a better term, I decided to wear the badge of “conlanger” reluctantly. Not only that, but due to its popularity and widespread use in English, I’ve had no real option on occasions to use the word to describe what I do.
But what’s my problem, eh? Does it actually matter what we call ourselves? Aren’t “conlanging” and glossopoeia just different words for the same thing? Why am I bringing up such pointless criticism for the sake of being contrarian? These are the objections which rage around my own head while writing, let alone the head of any reader reading. And my response is a resounding: yes, of course it matters! If language, words, their shape and sound, their symbolism are exactly what makes a glossopoeist so in tune with their self-expression, then we should be very concerned with how we are described. As a community which prides itself on creating nouns and verbs which fit concept and context, it has always seemed strange to me that we have adopted a term so clumsy as “conlanger”. I think it ironic we as a group of talented linguists, authors and screenwriters with the whole world’s vocabulary at their fingertips could only devise that term. If it was used sarcastically and even whimsically, I would maybe be more sympathetic. Yet the fact that we use it seriously is why I am making such a fuss. There’s a lamentable trend in Late Modern English which has become more prevalent, mainly due to the rise of social media and the digital age. We now have a distasteful propensity to create cheesy blends and unnecessary portmanteaus. In the first place, the act of creating blends is a violation of the words themselves! The crude knife doesn’t even bother to sever at the stem but plunges into the root and slices it apart. Examples of this horrific, lexical massacre include “hangry”, “bigorexia” and the illegal (phonologically in English) “vlog”. One of the more irritating ones has been “Brexit” for describing the UK’s decision to leave the European Union, best described by Main On Sunday columnist Peter Hitchens as the name for a “laxative breakfast cereal”1. Not only have these words achieved widespread usage, but they have also wormed their way into our dictionaries; truly descriptivism has gone mad! These words are unimaginative and not reflective of English’s best examples of wordsmithery. Not because they are blends, but because they pay no attention to aesthetics. Our disinterest in aesthetics has led to “conlang” being in the dictionary and glossopoeia not. These words sound and feel Orwellian. “artlang” and “sketchlang” for instance, carry a distinctive resemblance to words one might hear in Newspeak. How long until we start saying “doubleplussketchlang”? But my indignation is not just meant to be comical, but to address a point. The advantages of the word glossopoeia are quite clear. It is, like most Greek, soft and elegant with a literal whisper of mystery about it (owing to the alveolar fricative and the lightness of the voiceless stop). It is a compound of two elements: the first being one of the most pleasing words for "language" of any, γλώσσα, combined with ποίησης “poetry, creation” or “making” – a meaning much less industrial than “constructed”. Despite claims of Tolkien having invented the word, he never actually used it. It was instead originally coined by Steve Deyo who was the editor of Glossopoeic Quarterly. The reason why the term is superior, in my view, to any other when it comes to labelling what we do is that, besides being aesthetically pleasing, it accurately captures the marriage between artistic beauty and scientific complexity, which is the essence of language making. It allows also for the wonderful derivatives such as glossopoeist, glossopoeic and glossopoetics. These words are both magnificent and breath-taking. They give us far more dignity than “conlanger” ever will. It also disallows us the devaluation of our own languages as something lesser, as we cannot refer to our languages as “conlangs” anymore. We must give them the proper respect they deserve by calling them, unashamedly, languages. Who would ever dare now call as successful a language as Esperanto a “conlang”? I believe that we are more in tune and linguistically more competent than to be so unimaginative and inattentive to aesthetics. If I could achieve anything in this community, it would our abandonment of “conlanging” for glossopoeia. In Gobladian, there are ten different patterns for each type of stem. Each of these stems have particular characteristics; the different transfixes depend widely on it.
Form I: trilateral stem e.g. n-sh-t “fire”, d-m-b “might” Form II: trilateral stem e.g. g-b-l “goblin” Form III: bilateral stem e.g. t-l “star”, h-m “work” Form IV: bilateral stem e.g. v-c “water” Form V: unilateral stem e.g. sh- “time”, m- “shame” Form VI: unilateral stem, vowel initial e.g. al- “passion” Form VII: trilateral stem, geminated e.g. p-m-m “walk” Form VIII: trilateral stem, diphthong e.g. sh-m-p “eat” Form IX: bilateral stem, diphthong e.g. b-t “sword” Form X: quadrilateral stem e.g. n-l-p-b “mountain” Each form has it’s own distinct way of transfixing: Sí Tennagoth Axinkolaron
Sí vōnyas síron tennagotharon gārkaveti gē sínna xiagothannē, elen in grenhí nilohí naksa, ai ger síla arksý hinuthati hūle sílam eluninahū nesí uninuki. Ven eve selēnte. Gí síla calotihý denusý ethe galātivý, dona inu kanātihil sí axinkolan. Ven eve in renxeseron ikvel, in tavkapāti-selirte majēn. Miulvus eŋis tenime sauivoname por eve sadalāvivin. Penos enti denote karir ynxi. Ten tennagoth leriveti mē, patihil in alindaron lonkolan. Ven yalaveti. O rio da floresta flue por os árvores, como um serpente azul grande, e todos os animais vêm para beber da agua. Estava tranquilo. Só os pássaros cantando podem ser ouvidos, a musica deles mantendo a paz. É uma imagem de beleza, um encantamento que rouba o coração. Naturaleza neste mundo não pode ser destruída. Porem tem um dor grande aqui. Esta floresta chora, esperando uma esperança da vida. Ela vai morrendo. On a hill, a sheep that had no wool saw horses, one of them pulling a heavy wagon, one carrying a big load, and one carrying a man quickly. The sheep said to the horses: "My heart pains me, seeing a man driving horses." The horses said: "Listen, sheep, our hearts pain us when we see this: a man, the master, makes the wool of the sheep into a warm garment for himself. And the sheep has no wool." Having heard this, the sheep fled into the plain.
Sí Causa ai Síla Hensý Eŋis in morivoname, in būgenoti-dōvjinhí causa sidomesi un hensýn: sido tagāmesi in glōtin tovusan, thēo trenomesi in grentis trengunas kvē, ai blan trenomesi in brāsorās kvē ynōlhil. Sí causa tenomesi síla hensýs kvē: “Dia selir din karirāveti, arí astāti-brāsorāvýn hensýn sidoki.” Síla hensý tenothasi: “Dimogo, causan, gela selirē gē karirāthati disila gel ten sidogeti: in brasorā, sí astio, afāmetivīm sí causaron dōvjinan vis derohinna dāganna. Ai sí causa por genometi būva dōvjinan.” Ten galātihil, sí causa retenomesi vis sínna savagothanna. Verbal functions in Fairish are marked often of the pronoun, for instance a reflexive or reciprocal action is marked with the suffix -hì applied to the pronoun such as in the phrase “they act towards one another” mzehì jegdo. This true also for the passive alhe jarvelui risso jire “all languages are spoken here”. The ending may also be applied onto the end of the noun. A list of these endings are thus:
-lui passive -hì reflexive/reciprocal -tui abilitive -l̦o permissive -ca obligative dol̦o risțas - you may speak el idioma es hablado - ja jarvelui risso J’ui hunșanca rizero enta, elva sede? Dovhai ceso enta orosiz? Elva ja huntansed̦ot rissompi ja fairtanses ja jarvenhe fairver. J’ui hunșatúlo telheſo jirela acanv̦anhe, mzemai intso ja sensiz -nca direct -d̦o hearsay -mai mirative -vhai sarcastic mirative -túlo inference ja fairvetúlo risso ìnhe ìlui risso ìhì risso ìd̦o risso ìmai risso ìvhe risso ìtúlo risso ja hunșad̦ot harg̦anta ja fairv̦as - I heard the man hit the fairy ja hunșancat harg̦anta ja fairv̦as - I saw the man hit the fairy ja hunșamait harg̦anta ja fairv̦as |