They say mother tongue is the language you count in. But I count in all languages. Hierher, hierher, nicht links, nicht rechts, nicht vorne, nicht hinten, aber hierher, hast du keine Angst? 一二三四 cinc sis set ocho nueve. One speaks a language best when drunk. “师傅我去中央美术 学院”. My mother once said: “lo que tienen las nubes, es que no las puedes meter en una caja”. Mein seltsamen Lungen, wie sich spre- izende Pfauen. When I don’t want to be understood, I speak Mandarin. But they are all entangled in a way — a constant chain of mistranslation. 母语在哪里? Com comença un a oblidar la seva pròpia llengua materna? Yo, que ya he luchado contra toda la maldad / 它与我们在一起， 它像我们一样, / Tengo las manos tan deshechas de apretar / 它是我们 的手指, / Que ni te puedo sujetar / 它是我们对世界的脸. / Vete de mí...

Cloud Tongues was part of the theatre series Her Face 她的脸, a theatre series about diasporic poetry, disappearance and hauntological reoccurrence.

The act of translating produces linguistic friction, as well as bled wounds. There opens a fugitive path where German, Chinese, English, Catalan and Spanish are connected, on a merry-go-round of tortured and bleeding words, producing delirium and joy of disorientation.

Where is the mother tongue? It is with us, it is like us, it is our finger, it is our face to the world. Her face is a face that has gone through multilingual and polyphonic surgery. The frame shatters, the portrait collapses, and mercury cascades on the floor, into individual rooms and households in this Berlin winter. The linguistic rubbles of poetry that have remained restless enter the rooms as if exiled. All doors open. All doors close.