Oh to see. I am blind.

Or at least myopic. The tip of my nose marks the

Boundary of my sight.

Are my eyes inside out?

Is everything upside down?

You. Died. For. Me.

I try to look back across centuries, millenia

To see you die for me, but my straining eyes

Fail me.

History grows stale on the page.

Give me new eyes so I can see.

Make mud again for me.

Touch my eyes with your fingers.

The same fingers that painted stars onto an abysmal canvas.

The same fingers that traced an unfolding history into the stone

For an exiled people.

The same fingers that drew in the sand to erase the shame

Of a woman condemned.

Let me see the scars you purchased with your blood.

The souvenirs of your journey into the yawning jaws of death

To snatch me away from its infinite darkness.

Show me.

I want to see.

I want to believe.

I want to be changed.


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