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