Murder is a language too. It is a harsh awful language, a language of oppression, a guttural articulation of despotism, of rage, of hate, of desperate loss.
My language, my voice was strangled at Boston.
But I shall recover it. And when I do I will dedicate it – to the people who died, to the people who were injured, to the people who witnessed the carnage. I speak for you. By running, my little footsteps drum out a rhythm, and I speak. Added with all the other voices of the millions who run, no matter how far or fast, our footsteps make a melody pure and eternal. We will dissolve that awful language of hate and destruction. We will not stop until it is done.