The speaker is admitting something quietly disappointing: life hasn't sent them any signs. There are no angelic voices, no guardian angels murmuring that everything will be fine. It's the kind of comfort many people hope for, and the speaker notes its absence without anger, almost with a shrug.
What makes the poem interesting is the way it turns on itself. First the speaker suggests the silence might be their own doing, that they don't receive reassurance because they believe they won't. Then comes a gentler, more hopeful thought: maybe the guidance is there, and they just haven't learned the language yet. The silence stops being an emptiness and becomes something that might simply be untranslated.
The mood is wistful and uncertain, but not hopeless. The lowercase "i," the trailing dots, and the loose punctuation make it feel like a private thought half spoken aloud, honest about doubt while still leaving a small door open.