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Have I been one among the chain
of those who come in awe, and strain
to point a finger, poke a nose
into a past, that I don't know
To claim to know, and then exclaim
I understand the sound of pain?
One who gawks, then talks of things
but has no clue of what they mean?
A stranger to a sacred place
ignoring reverence and the trace
of those who dug, then laid the stones,
to make this place a home?
Am I of one who claims to know
Who borrows someone's history?
To journey here, in tourist clothes,
as if this place were mine to own...?
Who stirs the dust and tramps the grounds,
pointing, laughing, checking pamplets
yet, hearing nothing, but the sound
of my own ego echoing...
Only here to click my Canon, take a shot
or quickly have the proof, the lot
to prove to someone back at home
what matters not to them, at all
Text someone far, who doesn't care,
that I've been here or there...?
Have I been one? So far, so near?
Never conscious while I'm here
of those who came so long before
Of someone's loss, who laid the stone
or someone brave who called this home?
Who leads me to a crooked tree
once planted by a family
where lies a child
another, child and all the while
I smile and carry on
Compelled to come....yet, do I know?
I did not own, the years that tell
Nor mine to own, are tears that fell, ...
two hundred years ago?
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