It is shown, therefore it is?
We marvel at the hush of stars, pin them to ceilings, etch constellations in our wrists, but forget the clamor of crickets that stitch the night from the ground up.
A child presses her ear to a seashell, searching for the echo of oceans she's never seen
meanwhile, the rain on her roof sings the same,
in a tongue too familiar to be holy.
We praise the silence of ancient ruins, travel miles to walk on sunbaked stone but curse the crumbling wall at the back of our homes
where moss writes slow histories in a green script we never read.
the pebble beneath our shoe
once lived a thousand years in riverbeds
"O, that is nuisance, not a memory."
What are we?
We are exiles
from the republic of immediacy, tourists in our own elements, worshippers of distance,pilgrims of what is already gone.
-Fahad Fayaz
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