The moment when, after many years <br />of hard work and a long voyage <br />you stand in the centre of your room, <br />house, half-acre, square mile, island, country, <br />knowing at last how you got there, <br />and say, I own this, <br /> <br />is the same moment when the trees unloose <br />their soft arms from around you, <br />the birds take back their language, <br />the cliffs fissure and collapse, <br />the air moves back from you like a wave <br />and you can't breathe. <br /> <br />No, they whisper. You own nothing. <br />You were a visitor, time after time <br />climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming. <br />We never belonged to you. <br />You never found us. <br />It was always the other way round.<br /><br />Margaret Atwood<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moment/
