The Tourist
Have I been one among the chain
of those who come to gawk, then strain
to point a finger, poke my nose
into places I don't own?
To claim I understand the pain
that's covered by the winds and rain?
One who awes and talks in rhymes,
without a glance between the lines
A stranger to a sacred shrine
ignoring reverence and the trace
of those who toiled, laid the stones,
to make this place a home?
Am I the one who stakes a claim
Who borrows someone's history?
Travels here in tourist clothes,
as if this spot were mine to own...?
Who stirs the dust and tramps the grounds,
hearing nothing, but the sound
of my own ego echoing...
Simply here to frame a spot, quickly take a selfie shot,
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 struggled long before
The grief, the loss, long overgrown
where someone lived and made a home?
Who leads me to a crooked tree
once planted by a family
to mark a grave. Perhaps a child,
perhaps a spouse, and all the while
I smile, then carry on my day
Compelled to come....yet,
I did not own the years that tell
Nor did I own the tears that fell, ...
two hundred years ago?
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