As I travel through time;

Or it travels through me, sublime;

For each is its own paradigm;

I think of that place;

If it can be called a place;

Beyond time and space;

Where, as souls, we gather;

In our stations, you and I together.


Sharing our aspirations;

Not by words or actions;

Those are for mortal men and maidens;

But by the presence of the other;

For soul mates, we were;

Savouring in the company of one another.


Looking down into the dark abyss;

We see those who have a long way to go;

And above us are those who glow;

Each in their own rank and row;


We know that to rise into that glow;

We must create time and space;

Into which we must take human form to grace;

Forgetting each other;

And all we shared together;

Into the hands of the Blacksmith;

To be burnt and forged therewith.


And when the pain is not bearable;

And the purpose becomes a baffle;

And there is no way to pass;

And life seems a morass;

The kindly Blacksmith, awesome;

Throws us into our soul mates bosom.


Who for now is a stranger;

Whom we seem to have known forever;

To whom we want to open our hearts bare;

As we did before with little care;

But clouded by our acquired ego;

We loosen the reins slowly to show;

Our joy with this soul from long ago.


Alas, it has been the Blacksmith’s play;

To bring together soul mates gone astray;

At the direst moments of their way;

For relief, but only for a short stay.


Be warned O Blacksmith;

Lest the heavens be torn apart;

That this time around;

Your mallet shall take respite;

Contributing poet, and friend Vilochan


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