By Toni Barca

You have brought your face back from the million life times you have breathed.
Like a fine crafted sword wrought from the fire, forged into what you are today.

I see it in the square of your jaw,
the proud tilt of your head.
I see the memories in the fire within your eyes.
You walk with purpose.
Power trails like the ancient cloaks you wore as a Roman, a Celt, an African.
There is charisma here, but such alchemy was mixed with blood, born time after
time after time.

If I could but graze my finger tip across your lips would you speak in ancient
tongues, dead languages studied now by only the most elite scholars?
Would my longing to recall flood us in melancholy or would we laugh together at
the absurdity of it all?

I wonder?
I have so many homes, none are permanent, and yet, all are dear to me.
When do we know to what purpose we walk to?
What makes us wake and part the veils of the subconscious truth?
Do you know where your destiny lies?
Or is this life, a place of rest?
Is this time, a life to be lived with simplicity; the love of a woman, the birth
of children, and the death of the body and then to go on again?

I remember.
I remembered you when I first saw You, the air cracked between us.
We were uncomfortable, and circled each other like dogs, and then we spoke, and
understood the core of each other's hearts,
and then

all

eased.

So what now?