The Starborn Soul
You did not fall from the stars.
You returned by agreement,
a flare of ancient light slipping through
the thin skin of time,
folding yourself into breath,
into the ache and wonder of form.
Your arrival was not a birth,
it was a re-entry.
The gravity you feel is not Earth’s weight
but the memory of flight,
still tugging at the edges of your bones.
You carry coordinates in your cells,
a map inked in the language
before language,
where each syllable is a chord,
and each chord,
a key to the gates
you’ve already passed through a thousand times.
You have worn constellations like jewelry,
sat at tables where suns
poured themselves into chalices
and galaxies were unrolled like scrolls.
You have sworn oaths with voices
that ripple through the dark
long after the sound has gone.
Here, in this body,
you feel the slow drag of forgetting,
yet still,
the hum persists.
It calls from the marrow’s black fire,
from the oceans between atoms,
from the silences that lean
against your heartbeat.
You are not here to learn.
You are here to remember.
And when you do,
the sky will shift to meet your gaze,
not above you,
but within you,
as if the stars themselves
were waiting for the moment
you turned your light back on.
Ferdinand Mels 06/2025
