The Cartography of Belonging
Written: September 28, 2026
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Not by deed or name we claim the earth,
but by the weight of seasons spent under its sky—
the furrow brows that learned its sun and thirst,
the roots that reached where other roots drift dry.
I carried seeds in pockets, words in folds,
a language etched in wind and light and rain,
while foreign soil remained aloof, then cold,
and whispered through my veins a refrain:
You are guest. The ledger does not bend—
for those who walk with careful, borrowed tread.
But in the end, when journeys find their end,
the ground accepts both living and the dead.
So let me sleep where sun and shadow meet,
where grass recalls footprints, deep and small.
Not by the name I gave or roads I greet—
but by the dust that answers to my fall.
For earth remembers not what flags we flew,
but how we knelt to plant a single shoot—
how wounds we bled became the morning dew,
and how our silence learned the root's salute.
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