Diaspora

Some days I can stop anywhere that’s quiet enough and hear them speak to me, just faintly, like the first breath of spring. Or I might turn a corner and catch a glimpse of them from the corner of my eye, or hear the faint percussion of the mizik roll like distant thunder.

In mirrors I see ancient memories, thrice forgotten. In the twilight of my half sleep their voices grow clear, and I know they are here with me, these spirits that I serve.