Lore, Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Visiting home.

Burned long ago by the fire of future, what was is no longer.

I weep in dreams of ancient lives and places I’m not sure I have ever seen myself, or whether they are memories of stories from those long before me who spoke with such fondness and eyes glazed over with joy that I mistook them for my own.

I had returned to the place of my birth and was confronted with those with whom shared not a smile, song or word families to me or that place in which I grew.

It was a land of farmers and honest folk, of would-be philosophers and traders who hope to make one day a fortune but a fraction of a coin at a time.

There are strangers in the place in which I grew now. Only a scattering of familiar faces there, all disapproving of how their world has changed, and of those who left for something better, not knowing what we had to begin with.

Had I known the words of the elders to be true, had I and we all known their warnings were more than fear and paranoia of what was to come, then one of us would have left this place in which we all were born.

Not one of us would have thought or hoped to leave our place of birth to be open for other to settle and conquer.

I weep in quiet moments alone, knowing my acts have sealed the fate of those I left behind.

I weep knowing that nothing can be done to bring back the safe and isolated place in which I grew, which I inherited, which I had squandered with ambition and dreams.

Which we had all squandered as we inherited it. For all of us knew for certain that all things would be as they are, with only simple changes.

Yet here I weep for what is no more and can never be again.

I weep alone, though I am not the only one.

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