Immigrants

Aren’t we all, all of us? Coming from a world  before time and dream, a place without time a place that does not exist into a world that does, of time and content. The clock starts with a slap, breath, an intake of  our air, the colors of this world and first dreams of what’s ahead. Open your eyes. Breathe in the spice of your new world.  The mountains here  are everything new to you, the rivers to cross whose currents pull you to other shores, beaches shining with an infinity of reflecting grains, borders, a geography of constellations, stellar borders, everything in a single grain, just reflecting. I’ve seen you in lines outside, in the heat, in the cold, looking to inhabit beyond  these lines. And soon, as the days  and years turn over, you’ll again need  to begin the journey, the familiar journey, the long emigration back to the world where time is not a dream but an airless landscape, without scent, at the border where the dream sleeps.  No documents of transition. Breathe.

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