Each moment passes before we know it’s gone.
Our Own memories are written on the shores of time’s ocean
Soon the clarity of what has been fades away
And all we are left with are faded snapshots
Of some events in our lives
But our memory often deceives us
With something that may not be the truth
Only our perception colored by our emotions
Creating a drama of our life
With us as the main character
And a storyline centered on us
That begins and ends with us
Only loosely connected to the past
Continued on imaginary lines into the future
How then can we understand what has come before
Can we trust the history we have been taught
Who writes that story?
Whose memories are retold?
We can barely understand the stories of our Elders
Fantastic tales of fabled times
Romanticized to ease the pain of real life
Further back to what has been written
We only have the legacy of the powerful
Making heroes of warlords and despots
What is true and what is real?
Who decides what will be remembered
And how is it presented?
Voices from the margins
Female voices often left unnamed
Voice of the oppressed and conquered
Silenced by Empire
Only to be spoken in the voices of colonizers
Generations of culture, tradition, and religion
Erased by sword, disease, and exile
Where is their voice?
Where are their memories?
We pretend to understand ancient words.
Written for those long dead
Interpreting meaning with a modern eye
Translating and transliterating thoughts
Until any original meaning is completely lost
How can we know the truth?
How can we read the past?
Is truth only decided by the victor, by the powerful?
Which version of history’s story do we keep?
Has right always been right?
Has truth always been true?
We seek to take a bite of the fruit of Knowledge’s tree
Wanting to make ourselves gods
And yet it is all an illusion
The universe laughs in mockery
Before we can understand all that we cannot know
The wind of time blows our life’s candle
And we are only a photograph in a book that no one will read.