Ancient Self

Some days, she comes— of her own will.

Some days, she comes—
of her own will.

Today, she came.
A fullness, not bound to vision or sound,
but overtaking this moment, this life.

She showed me my ancientness,
part of me in another dimension,
though on earth thousands of years ago.

Walking, illuminated, through caves and passages,
my peers in the dark—Yoginis.
Watching, moving, speaking,
performing rituals lost to time, yet here.
They never left.

The knowledge never left.
It lingers—its purpose belonged to then,
yet it lives, contained within us.
We are containers,
walking, breathing, encoded,
and it awakens at its own will.

The yoginis still move—
in another realm,
another dimension,
embedded in us.

All secrets lie within.
Some they share,
the rest,
I do not press.

I love their darshan, their company,
the revelation, the mystery.
Content with that.
It is safer this way.

The yoginis never ended.
Never perished.
All the Mother.
Unfathomable presence.

They are all Her,
contained within me.

O Mother of Black Mist.

Is it hair wash day today?