Samsara by Maria Fokas
With a torch in one hand and a key in the other, she stands alone before a crossroad. The paths are glowing below the full-moonlight sky; with her first step, she opens her eyes, again. She cries between lives and dances between deaths. She claims that nothing is ever lost – but that is never the case. She recalls three forms – past, present, and future; as blessed souls, return to the other side.
Her travels are spread across the continents, with no care in the world, searching for a friendly face, but they have become so scarce. With time, she fears to stay; a broken heart cannot mourn. With the wings of her horse she will disappear; a word or a gesture, nothing more than a grain of hope.
And in the end, when she wakes from all her travels, she will recall those few who tried to save her from darkness, hidden behind her subtle smile. A sadness will fill her eyes, for all the lost time – empty time; left a trace as it slipped away, all those times before it.
But there are no regrets, for she bore two gifts. She tells stories just to witness their laugh; many, of a past life; of a muse that carried the seed of sunlight, enchanting dark souls – listening to the secrets in their dreams – feeling the hunger in their hearts – leaving spells in the night, hoping they will seize the time.
And when she’s gone, one memory, she will keep. Not the souls she touched, not the stories she told, but that one love; the whisper of his promise. He said she was genuine – she smiled in disbelief. Such a long time ago; a thousand years ago. He promised to protect her; he asked her to remember – and she did.
And as she stands below the moonlight, she hears the soft whisper of her lover, bidding her good night. In her dreams, he waits beneath a willow, surrounded by the sweet scent of spring, and captivating memories of delight in his touch; a glimpse of bits and pieces through the circle of time –
In a remote existence far from mortal ways, better to be feared than to be handled with restraints. I still remember the pain. No, that cannot be my life again; this time around I will stay clear of love. There is comfort in the certainty that death can set you free. So, if words have the power to craft my fate, I hope this to be my last wandering through – for my soul is dying, and my faith is gone.
© Maria Fokas 2014