This place, I know it, Somewhere deep inside, A pocket vein of memory, Running rich, Thundering, But not yet broached. There are others here, Sitting and standing, Talking. Each with a dawns haze, Diffusing their forms, Indistinct, With the edge of reality. You don't remember yet do you ? It is an old man standing next to me, Talking in a whisky train voice. I pay more attention, Catch the faint smell of woodland, Stormy winter nights and a thousand days sun, Rich soil and harvested crops, All clinging to him. No, I say in return, Noticing others outside our group, For the first time. They are moving, Slowly, Bowed down and hunched, Burdened before sadnesses hand. I shiver and turn away, Hear the old mans next words, Swallowing me whole. We are the old souls, And here we wait. I nod, can hear the truth, With its sing-song lightness. I glance again at those moving, And he picks up my thoughts. Those are the others, he says, Grinning with a hint of eternity, They worship the material, Make love to their emotions, And sigh with regret when they die. He shrugged, they are doomed to repeat. Repeat ? I ask, not understanding, He leans close then and touches his nose, A diaphanous face, reflecting inwards, No time here but infinity, With the secret stretched thin between us, His words rustling with summers remembrance. They are doomed to repeat, And forever will they fall, Until in life they realize, And then he winked, They are mortal after all.Birth sign: Virgo
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