WHISPERS OF HOME: A JOURNEY THROUGH TIME AND STRUGGLE Our father who art in heaven, what we are leaving behind will never wait for us. - Rcome Oriogun On a train station in Brooklyn, 1800, A traveller whispered to me about home: We boarded at a place where he called Haven, At the top of his vocal cords, at the station. Here, he declared that home was built in a day, & that it houses the blood of the innocents. When I turned to look at his home in 1900, He wore the skin of them who tilled the land, Where their broken & bruised palms Still are saying; guide us home in safety. But every trace of home is on the running feet, & you know this in the language of their letters.
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