Today I stumbled on a word—
schadenfreude, sharp and foreign,
joy carved from another’s sorrow.
A German gift, the dictionary whispered.
I searched for its English twin,
wondering if our tongue
had forged its own blade.
Epicaricacy appeared, rare and radiant.
I loved it—an antique jewel—
but Google muttered: archaic,
and spellcheck shook its head.
Everyone bows to schadenfreude.
Why abandon a word so lovely,
to borrow another’s laughter at pain?
English, fickle and capricious,
always choosing the stranger’s voice.
