Tokens
Seeking new paths to wander upon,
My self-absorption knowing no bounds,
I search along the forgotten roads
That used to lead to home. . .
I think.
I scratch out a word or two,
Tokens.
Perhaps to be found
By another pilgrim.
Are you there?
The question is asked.
Is my presence on this journey
Of any import after all?
And if I wander, will my footsteps
Make a mark that will last
Beyond the next storm?
In this time of exile,
The wilderness has swallowed us whole.
We do not even remember our quest.
Our eyes have seen so much,
And yet we stumble as if blind.
For these days one searches
Far and wide.
For one glimpse of a kindred soul,
Born of one's homeworld.
That speaks the tongue
One learned before one could
Discern this face from another.
The language beyond words.
The utterances of shared memory,
That flood the senses,
Unbidden in the deep night,
When sleep belongs to all but you.
And what if my tokens were found?
And a word still hung in the air
When I returned to the place of its speaking?
What then, what then?
Would we find that even then
The chasm would yawn between us.
That one small difference would be enough
To keep us from uniting.
I seek my tribe, my people.
But I fear we have fallen under a spell,
And would not know each other,
Even if one should cry aloud in the marketplace:
Alas, alas!
My kinsman.
Come to my aid!
But do not bid me come to you!
For perhaps we have traveled so far alone,
That we have forgotten
How to grasp the hand of a friend,
And not know where we end,
And he begins.
How will we ever heal the wounds this way?
The shattered sparks have flown,
To the very corners of all that is known.
Almost beyond the boundaries,
Where even angels dare not stray.