The Historian

Born too late in a strange land,
lost with love of a people
you can never claim.
Living a time you can never know.
Touching flyleaf of book
as hand of friend.
Surrounded by plain walls that can’t
keep you safe, from sepia
faces with delicate tints.
You walk streets you resent
because your prints are misplaced.
You drink of waters faint
as fog and myth.
You don’t see me because
I’m too real. I’m messy and chaotic,
and speak words you can hear.
I walk in light, no stones lie on me.
Smell of sweat and soap,
not flowers decayed.
I am less real to you than images
in print and paint.
In your mind, less real than
beauties in a field scattered about;
like painted bluebirds on fragile teacup.
Your life ended when
Atom’s fire blossomed,
Your time started when the ashes
had cleared.

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