It stretches as far out as the eye can see. Expansive plains, or humbling mountains. Refreshingly green, or majestically arid. Devoid of human touch, or dotted with huts and farms. Seen in an instant as it passes by, or soaked up over hours by those who sit and stare. And never forgotten.
Silent. The occasional call of a country bird or the roar of a passing vehicle only serve to define the silence. And still. Leaves rustle, and in the distance a farmer and his cows plough a field. Just reminders of stillness. In hundreds of years past, invaders have conquered, cities have sprung, life has changed for a billion people. And here, a few blades of grass have been bent.
It is the stillness – and the silence – which speaks there. And that is why I go. They speak with gentleness, and a haunting surety. They don’t just tell you their story. They tell you that their story is also yours. Just one that is forgotten – in the numerousness of activity filled moments with which you define your life. And they bring you back to the only moment that matters.