In the beginning, Adam was made of clay,
not alone, yet one; for his name means “earth,”
a breath of soil shaped and still not capable of dismay,
the dust still warm—out of shared earth comes our birth.
And if we came from one soul,
then all our bones remember land,
before borders, loss, through hidden scroll,
before the first dividing hand.
Cain and Abel—two from one,
one hunger split in mirrored skin,
one offering beneath the shared sun,
one silence where the wound begins.
Tell me, stranger, if clay is true,
how did we learn to call you “other,”
when every vein in me is you,
and every breath remembers brother?
If your speech no longer fits my ear,
if mine is strange upon your tongue,
is recognition still held near,
or lost where ancient names go unsung?
“Where is your brother?” still is asked,
not as a curse but as refrain—
a question never fully masked,
that calls us back to one terrain.
So Adam is still the soul we share,
not merely as man but as common ground:
can one still see through fractured eyes
what once was whole before nation-bound?
With Eve—Chava, Hawwa—“life,”
the one who carries breath into shared name,
not yet made for fracture, but drawn from strife,
the living echo that declares us the same.
If all of us are earth remade,
then none of us were ever truly two—
so tell me, when the dust has swayed,
how do I fail to recognize you?
dededos
kianamaiart
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
areudirty
romaincrisis
snowghoul
