Her heart knows this man from long before, passed years,
nearly a thousand since then.
Like a storm he raided—
burning her home,
stealing her virginity and leaving,
as if it were his right to take her known life away.
She birthed his bastard child from the unwanted seed,
then drained her body of blood, quietly in a corner,
alone.
The gray stone stained red with vital fluid that matched the flame of her hair;
the hollow glint in her eyes a mirrored reflection of the sun she had seen on his helmet,
as he conquered her from above.
Years passed in that life and when the battle lust died
his thoughts were flooded with sorrow and feelings of self loathing,
at the earthly hell he had forged.
His mind was possessed—
recalling the destruction of a defenseless town which burned
till the sky glowed amber and red—the colors of hot death,
and Her hair.
The final cries of the children echoed in time to his breathing,
haunting his dreams, day and night.
He relived the day over and yet again,
memories; a suffocating night demon,
anguish his only friend.
And over it all an imprint in his eye,
the face of the red-haired beauty,
whose flaming hair had seared his heart when he stole her life,
as only a man could.
He came back years hence to look for the woman with the hair of fire
whose face he needed to see—
to lift the shadow of pain from the holes in his soul.
But only dark dusty rubble and the dint of rust on a broken sword greeted him.
There was no absolution.
She was no more.
That life passed, more still,
but he remembered always,
the face of the red-haired woman,
that cried with pity when he raped her—
no scream ever parting her lips.
He searched for the soul of that heart,
through deepest China, two hundred years later,
but a bamboo curtain sheltered her from his sight.
A net of years passed,
then he, in the guise of Shaman, near a small Argentine village,
nearly found her.
But she, a small boy, ran to his mother who took him safely away.
Again during the conquering of America,
he caught a glimpse,
of the face of the red-haired woman,
but she turned her bronzed cheek away and fled on her horse,
leaving him in a wave of dust that strangled the longing in his throat.
He lived and died in the ethereal in hopes of finding her touch,
but She, dancing always beyond reach,
like the molten blaze in a fire,
burned his heart each time he neared.
Now, years ago this life he recognizes her again,
by the same flame of hair,
and the song of her soul.
This time, at long last, for her there is no memory,
so she does not run.
But her lips say, “No,”
not knowing her deepest soul means,
“I remember you. I fear you.”
They forge a tenuous bond.
