Know Thyself

On the edge of my soaring spirit,
I look down to a field.
Over there, I am a mother with four sons.
Over there, I am a son to an Indian tribesman.

Over there, I am a murderer in a cold cell.
Over there, I am an old woman, crystals in my hands.

I slip down the slope towards them.
They do not speak, but their eyes are knowing.

All encircle me, I know them,
I recognise their faces.

The ground beneath us begins to swirl.
Slowly, our bodies meld

Where have they gone?
Inside you, a voice says.

I stand, arms wide open,
I hear a beautiful name,

I cannot see my face.

Author: Charlene Yared-West

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