The Call

(Iniea #4)

What Iniea was thinking about as she looked across the Cheyth at her home ages before she was born, and grabbed a rock out of the clear running waters. She wrote the poem the following days of travel. 

The place that I call home
Has always called to me
I’ve seen it in many times
Both new and anciently
I was born in the future
But am in antiquity,
Where the world is green and young
Clothed in maiden beauty
My chest is achin’ now
For soon the Nalshbori
Will raid this precious place
Burn every leaf and tree.
My fathers will be killed
Or chained in slavery
The Cheyth, as clear as glass,
Will run polluted to the sea. 
The place that I call home
Has always called to me
Should I stay–I wonder?
Not from curiosity
But because when someat’s broken
No healing can there be
You can at least be present
With the broken quietly.
And at the lands first wounding
What honor would it be
To defend against the ruin,
Set my face defiantly? 
The place that I call home
Has always called to me
As I gaze I wonder
This is a mystery–
Could my life be out of order
So, long before my nativity,
My heart was buried yonder
‘Neath the ancient pine trees?
Is THAT is why this place
Has always called to me?