I'm not from here (Intrinsic Epic)

 

I will now take you to the little village I once belonged to.

I crossed the seas riding a lion, only to tell you.

My story was taken from the chessboards, and I still possess the independence and majesty of the queen, but with the protective instinct and suffering the fate of the pawns.

In this medieval life of mine, I was so much, so much that I brought remnants of it into this one. I lived until I felt like a lady!

I wandered over the bridges, gazing at the lake and admiring the horizon, always at the hours when the Sun drifted farthest from the Earth.

I wore gloves, I'm sure! Those covered nearly my entire arm.

I saw some peasants in the fields and others clearing away the debris.

I am not from here; I never was.

I think I met people there, people in the space between life and death, people in a place far beyond this northern point.

I rode horses and ran wildly in a vast nothingness. 

My freedom caressed my hair, which seemed like endless strands of yarn.

My essence was never alone, I know. This body it inhabits now is only for a while!

I carry my instinct through every season and pay no heed to the tongue of toxic saliva.

In truth, I pity it, for I know that its words are merely an attempt to envy the life of my scene.

This life is passing, my dears! While some people pretend to have modesty and fail to understand what love is, they lose their rare pleasures.

Society, a deformer of thoughts and a molder of nonexistent people is, in truth, just another sick being.

It is the Age of Aquarius—let us set fire to the planetary system!

But I am not from here; I never was.

Life is a puzzle. Perhaps your final piece, never found by me, was hidden, crumpled.

It is a labyrinth with many doors but no exit, an hourglass whose sand never stops falling; it is a compass without cardinal points.

I live now in a futuristic time where men still wage war, with or without civilization.

Nostalgic for the echoes and mountains at your back.

And so, my ears cherished the sound of harps, and my eyes absorbed what lay at every corner.

I still sense the scent of the fabric of my corsets, my many garments, and the steel of my fencing.

At some point, I came across fragments of old paper from my ancient diary with an antique calendar.

But from living so many lives, I now feel as dry as a maple leaf in winter—only my body seems modern.

I will enter the castle once more and see your firmament ceiling. I will become my leaven.

But I am not from here; I never was.

Perhaps I love solitude so much because, once upon a time, I married, and my husband is lost, and he will never, never find me again.

I know the purple angel also walked there; we met on the street once, and part of our story remains written on the low walls of houses, on the stones of the streets, in the red seeds traded for prayers.

Know, then, that I climbed walls dwelling in an abyss only to make my words eternal, and someday, in another place, when someone touches them, a faint scent of lavender will spread, and that person will know.

I am not from here; I never was.