Past Life
Strong winds blow memories of days of yore, 
Of swaying trees and waves that roar, 
Of heated rocks and hot, hot sand, 
Round grass huts that dot the land. 
Far off a snow capped mountain high 
And there the golden eagles fly. 
The essence of a once lived life 
Cuts through me like a saw toothed knife. 
The cobwebs clear and I am there, 
Oh! Many ones with kinky hair. 
Many eyes stare back at me. 
This is not where I want to be. 
So grabbing a life line, 
Yes that one, the one that is mine, 
And holding on while warm winds push me, 
Ah, home. This is where I want to be. 

Copyright © 2004 Lunaria (Lila May Guptill)