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Slowly, the pulse of this foreign land beats,
And today, I walk its streets with the face of a stranger.
Unfamiliar words fill the air,
New scents seep into the gaps of my memory.
Here, the Sunday of one adapting is akin to the heart of a pilgrim,
Suspended between awe and fear.
I ask myself,
“Is this truly the place where I am meant to stand?”
The sunlight glints off windows in hues I’ve never seen,
And laughter drifts down the streets,
A story I cannot yet decipher.
Yet even in this strangeness,
My heart begins to align with theirs,
Matching the rhythm of this unfamiliar place.
At a corner, I close my eyes,
And feel the path that is now becoming my own.
Thus, the one who adapts knows,
That even the Sundays of strange lands,
Are simply poised somewhere between heaven and hell. 8 replies
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