My History

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Despite wildfires and book burnings
The Story, The History lives on:
Rustling whispers last longer
Than anything flammable,
Can be hidden for generations.
Word of mouth and rustle of leaves
Carry a precious cargo
Yet are by no means inept.
The veins, the shape, the tint,
May not remain untouched –
But revisions are not fallacious,
For history is never complete but
Always increasing, swelling, expanding.
History becomes, does not remain.
Is history not the people,
Their forest, their civilization?
As carriers of their own cargo
Their words ring truer, increase
Through time:
Become, become, become.





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