Incarnation

  Sounds from the past can be heard from afar, waking a memory from its sleep. A tiny spark, barely visible in a place too dark to tell, lifts and gleams, remembering where the melody comes from, then it resists, losing some more of its light, I am staying here, it hears itself think. The spark wants to forget its last remaining self. The sweet harmonies from a time when it was most alive are too painful to hear.

  A stream of delicate voices answer with what sounds to be, it is us, it is us..hear us sing, hear us sing, and a chorus fills the empty space that is the sparks centre, and when that is full the spark opens for more, soon outgrowing the place too dark to tell - longing to get closer to the singing.         

  I can't remember how..

  Come up..come up..

  Once it starts lifting it cannot stop, as it rises it sets alight, and seen in the blackness are more tiny sparks, revealed by its dazzling light.

  Mother..Mother..they call.